Sketch Comedy
A few summers ago, while I was living in my inflatable apartment in Chicago, I took some sketch comedy writing classes as part of the adult one-week immersion classes at Second City. It was ridiculously fun, and I think it helped me have a better grasp of plot.
You also never know what you'll come up with when left entirely to your own devices. Since I mainly write nonfiction, few aliens, zombies or ninjas show up in my work. With pure fiction, anything can happen. That being said, I give you my out-of-context sketch:
"The Trainee"
CAROL: (Waving offstage.)OK, kids, just go on up tothe register. Enjoy your new furry friends!
MITCH: (ApproachingCarol.)Alright, Carol, at two wehave the Jennifer Thompson birthday party. Then, at four, we have Joey Miller’sshebang. And, we round it out at six with Sarah Champion’s party. They’re allbringing their own cakes, but you’re going to have to cut and serve, as usual.
CAROL: Look, Mitch, like I’ve toldyou before, I can’t handle all of these hours. I’ve already been thrown up ontwice today. You have to hire somebody else to help out on the weekends.
MITCH:Carol, I’ve listened toyour complaints. I really have.
CAROL: Oh, really? Well, what haveyou done about it?
MITCH: Actually, I’ve hiredsomebody new, and as soon as you train him, you can start spending more time atthe register and less time on birthday parties.
CAROL: That’s great, Mitch. Youknow I really appreciate that. I’m actually really excited...
MITCH: (over)Why don’t you come onover ... (Beckonsoffstage. Genghis enters.)Carol, I’d like you to meetGenghis Khan. Genghis, this is Carol.
CAROL: Uh, hi Genghis. It’s niceto meet you.
GENGHIS: (Grunting.) Good concubine.
CAROL: Excuse me?
MITCH:Well, now that you two areacquainted, I’ll leave you guys to get to it. Good luck Genghis.
CAROL:Well, I guess we’ll start withthe animal selection ... (Carolturns her back on Genghis while she gestures to the wall ofun-stuffed animals.) Some of these animals areincluded in the normal price, like the smaller teddy bears, and some of themare considered “premium” animals.
GENGHIS: (WhileCarol has her back to Genghis, he is digging through the boxof stuffing and triumphantly lifting fistfuls of it.)Infidels!
CAROL: (Turningback around.) Are you following me? (Genghis grunts excitedly,still holding his fistfuls of stuffing.) No, no, no, Genghis. One ofthe first rules of Build-A-Bear is that we never, ever play with the stuffingunless we are actually building a bear. (Genghis hangs his head in shame and drops the stuffingback into the big box.)
CAROL: (Turningher back again.) But, since you like thestuffing so much, I guess we could skip ahead to actually stuffing the bears ... (Carol isgently stuffing a bear.) Now, you want the bears tobe firm, but not un-huggable. And we also make sure to give all of the animalsa heart while we’re stuffing them ... (Genghis is stuffing hisbear violently, continually shoving his fist into the bear, so that he lookslike he’s stabbing it.) (Turningback around.) Do you need a heart foryour bear?
GENGHIS: (Grunting while still stabbing his bear.) The rivers will run withblood!
CAROL: Oh! No, no, no, no, noGenghis. Build-A-Bear is a gentle place. A place of love. One of our other veryimportant rules is not to scare the children. And violent stuffing techniquestend to do that. (Genghishangs his head in shame and grunts softly.) Don’t get too discouraged.Hopefully the third time’s the charm. (Carolturns back to the wall.) Now, once the bear isstuffed, the children might want to dress it up in any of the clothes or otheraccessories we offer.
GENGHIS: (Genghis rips the stuffedhead off of his bear, puts it on a stick in front of him, and nodsapprovingly.) Victory is mine!
CAROL: (Turningback around.) Oh my God! What have youdone?
GENGHIS: (Genghis grunts happily.)Conquered the enemy?
(Mitchenters.)
MITCH: What’s going on over here?
CAROL: (Gesturestowards the bear head on a stick.) I’m sorry, Mitch, but thisjust isn’t working out.
MITCH: OK, OK, I was afraid ofthis. Look, Genghis, I know you gave this a shot, but I just don’t think thatBuild-A-Bear is the right place for you.
GENGHIS: These things happen. (Genghis hangs his head,grunts, shrugs his shoulders, and walks offstage.)
CAROL: Well, what do we do now?
MITCH: Don’t worry yet, Carol. Ihad a back-up in case the training didn’t go well ... (Beckonsoffstage. Vlad enters.)Carol, this is Vlad theImpaler. Vlad, Carol.
(End.)
My Cat Thinks He's A Dog
I have a love/hate relationship with my blog's stats. On the one hand, the narcissistic part of me has to know how many people clicked on my website in a given day. On the other hand, the numbers themselves can be a bit of a downer. Thank you Mom and Dad for continuing to visit, but in comparison to even some friend's Twitter followers, I'm not causing much of a stir on the world wide web.
For those of you wondering what any of this has to do with my cat's identity issues, here goes: One trend I have noticed is that anytime I put "cat" or "dog" in a blog title, my number of visitors doubles. (Strangely enough, my mention of "Scott Bakula" has a similar effect. Whether or not these two are related, I can't say.) So, in an effort to give the people what they want -- and boost my Google search rating -- here are the top three indicators my cat thinks he's a dog:
3. He tries drink out of the toilet. I have no idea where this came from, but it happened. I'm just glad I was around, and he didn't drown. I don't think he knows he isn't the same size as the dog either.
2. While he clearly has no use for the litter box, he has shown some success in the house-training department with puppy pads. My next step: putting the puppy pad in the litter box. Please keep your fingers crossed.
1. He tries to nurse on Cassidy. I had no idea what was going on when this first happened (my first clue anything was amiss was a very perplexed look from the dog), but sure enough, there was the cat trying to get milk out of the dog that's been fixed for five years. I read on the Internet that this is very common for young cats, especially when they're small and looking for comfort. It's also supposedly a sign that the cat sees Cassidy as his mom. The only problem? I don't think Cassidy wants to be anyone's mom. She's much happier being my very pampered baby. I imagine that this one will work itself out. There's only so many times you can go back to the pantry looking for nourishment when you know it's empty, right? Otherwise, I try to make sure Cassidy has plenty of her own space -- even if that space comes with the caveat of snuggling with me.
And for my own purely selfish reasons, I will also add that both Cassidy and the cat completely adore Scott Bakula.
David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness
Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.
(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)
In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:
He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.
"Basil," I said.
"That looks like basil?"
"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."
"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.
"Thyme?"
At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:
Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.
The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.
My Life Is Hard
Some people wash their faces in the shower out of convenience. I do it out of necessity.
You see, that whole image perpetuated by Oil of Olay commercials and Neutrogena ads of a woman who is capable of rinsing her face with a perfectly controlled mini-splash from the sink is just beyond me. When I wash my face, it usually goes like this:
First, I knock over my toothbrush stand and hair brush using one hand to search for a towel while my eyes are clamped shut. (If I dare to open my eyes even a second too soon, I inevitably get face cleanser in my eye leading to some crying, frantic eye-rinsing and ten minutes of hyperventilating while I wonder whether or not I have inadvertently blinded myself.)
Then, once I find the towel and pat my face dry, I look in the mirror to see that stray face cleanser has found its way into my hair and ears. I spend more time cleaning up from washing my face than actually washing my face. Missed soap in the hair is the worst -- it does not dry well.
Next, not only will I have water stains on my shirt from out-of-control splashing, but the entire waistline of whatever I've decided to wear will also has a line of water across it from leaning over the sink. This routine always ends with having to find an entirely new outfit before leaving the house. (And, for me in my pre-underemployment days, picking out not one, but two, business casual outfits in a day was rather time-consuming.)
With the shower face wash, there's no danger of ruined outfits, and I can't tell you how much time and frustration this has saved. I repeat -- my life is hard.
On a completely unrelated note, if anyone has any blog topics to suggest, I'd love to hear them. Even I'm finding it hard to make my days seem at all interesting to anyone else. Not that you can tall from this post, of course.
My Life in Cosmetics
When I turned 12, my mother took me on a special outing to the Clinique counter at the mall so that I could learn about skin care. We bought soap, toner, moisturizer and a lip gloss in acknowledgment of what would be the beginning of my life with cosmetics. After all, I was about to be a teenager, and for the most part, teenage girls and makeup go hand in hand.
I already had a slew of products picked up from the drug store, but those bright blue eye shadows and hot pink lip colors were for inside the house and "play' time only. I could actually go to school in my new Clinique lip gloss, and it was thrilling.
As I approach the milestone of my thirtieth birthday, I started thinking about my life in cosmetics. (I know that 30 is "the new 20," but I still find myself thinking about this birthday a little more than others.) I even came up with a brief history of my makeup usage:
Age 12: Lip gloss.
Age 15: Powder, mascara, lip gloss.
Age 18: Concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick.
Age 21: Body glitter and mascara. (Body glitter was very popular then, I swear. And, back then, my skin just seemed to glow with youth and possibility. Or, maybe it was just over-confidence and naivety.)
Age 25: Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick.
Around the age of 25, I realized $3 foundation wasn't going to cut it anymore. At 20, my foundation cost $5 and my eye shadow cost $25. Now, my foundation costs $35 and my eye shadow costs $5.
But, what's most interesting to me is the change in my "no makeup" face. Now, I don't know about you, but I just assume that anyone who looks decent and says they "don't have a stitch of makeup on" is lying. "Women who don't wear makeup" are just wearing very little makeup. I mean, my mom gave me some great genes, but if I don't slap on some concealer, even a blind man would know it.
And I can tell you with no shame whatsoever that if I say I'm not wearing makeup, I'm full of it. (Unless, of course, we run into each other at the hospital or the liquor store. And, in those moments, you won't say "Your skin looks great. Do you have anything on?" At those times, you'll say, "Are you OK?" or "Trouble sleeping lately?".)
At 21, my "no makeup" face required concealer and mascara. Today, my "no makeup" face is a careful balance of foundation, powder, eye base, eye brightener, bronzer, mascara, eyebrow filler and nude lipstick. (You can now see why I didn't type out my Age 29 makeup routine. I lost count after the tenth product.)
I only hope my income bracket can keep up with my growing need for cosmetics. (Sigh.) And, while I know that the alternative to aging is death--and in that scenario, I'll always take aging, I do wish my ever-expanding makeup case wasn't such a persistent sign of my deepening "maturity."
Early to Nothing
I don't like being early.
I know lots of people are nuts for it, and any advice on job-searching always begins with "be early for the interview," but personally, I've never seen the point. After all, what's the best thing that's going to happen if I'm early? I'll get to wait in a non-descript room with outdated magazines, other people will know that I'm early and hopefully all events/appointments will begin on time?
Eh, I say. Events/appointments will also begin on time if I'm ON TIME, so what does this early nonsense really accomplish? (I never said I was a fan of being late as opposed to being early. For once, I'm opting for the non-excess, middle road of simple punctuality.) And if I'm early and my appointment begins early, I got nothing from this exchange that wouldn't also happen if I was on time.
Also, it seems that being early always involves waiting, and I hate waiting. I don't want to leave my house 15 minutes early to read a Birmingham Parent from 2006 about summer camp tips for teens when I could stay at my house for those 15 minutes and throw a load of clothes in the wash or catch the end of Cheaters. If I'm going to be wasting time anywhere, I want it to be at home and not in a corporate lobby.
People say, "What if there's traffic? What if you have trouble parking? Being early can prevent being late."
Again, I feel "eh" about this. Most of the time, there's not that much traffic. (I live in Birmingham, far, far from the dreaded 280.) Most of the time, I'll find a parking space. At worst, I'll be about five minutes behind. In truly dire circumstances, leaving the house 15 minutes early is just a drop in the bucket to a complete interstate back-up or shut-down highway anyway.
For the truly time-sensitive -- live TV, NASA -- I get being early. But, for the rest of us, who, let's be honest, can accomplish more with an e-mail that we can with an hour-long meeting but just want an excuse to get out from behind our computers for a little while and dig into the hours we all try to kill before going home to eat and sleep, does it really matter? Really?
I feel the same way about waking up early for no good reason. Other than Al Roker's antics, is there that much to be missed by getting out of bed at 7:45 instead of 6:45? If I don't have a flight to catch and I don't have a job, you won't find me roaming the neighborhood, coffee in hand, ready to greet the day. Some people brag about seeing the sunrise. I'd prefer to catch Conan's musical guest. It's simply a personal preference, like chocolate ice cream or the pink Starbursts.
Feel free to tell me about all that I'm missing out on or what I don't see about the joys of being early. You can even tell me how rude I'm being. Just don't give me that Benjamin Franklin nonsense about early to bed and whatnot. I don't think it matters when you get your eight hours -- it's what you do with the other 16 that seems to count. And it's not like I said I spent the rest of my day in bed eating bonbons.
Although, that bonbon thing doesn't sound like a bad job if I could get it ...
Predator at the Door
I won't lie to you. As soon as I found a boyfriend, I stopped killing bugs. Sure, I could still kill my own bugs (by "kill," I actually mean "draft a carefully worded detente understood by me and the bug granting the bug all rights of access to my home and yard provided said bug will not take up residence inside my shoes, fall on my head in the middle of the night or appear in glasses of red wine"). But I don't want to kill bugs, and I don't have to now. I see it as one of the best perks to dating.
But, every so often, I stumble on a bug that I can't even ask the Significant Other [SO] to kill. Pictured is one such bug.
This is the actual spider that spun a web outside my back door (while I won't ask the SO to kill all bugs, I will ask him to photograph them). The spider is huge. His butt is bulbous (which I interpret as being full of poison -- I CAN do science). And he has very long legs leading me to believe that he could outrun me if necessary (not really a challenge, but still).
I keep the SO from this bug mainly because I don't want to be charged with manslaughter in his death by arachnid. (Is "poverty" a viable courtroom plea yet? Bug spray ain't cheap, after all.)
I also think dating is hard enough without having to explain on one's match.com profile how they sacrificed their last boyfriend to a killer spider because unemployment made paying an exterminator out of the question.
Addendum: It turns out that my spider is actually a completely harmless and very common breed known as a garden spider. Unfortunately, fact does not keep the creepy crawly from scaring the bejesus out of me.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs
As we all know, I love my dog. (Hell, she even has her own blog.) She is my baby, my buddy and my near-constant companion. Since I love my dog so much, I never want her to feel neglected, dejected or put out. As crazy as it may sound, I don't want her to ever think she isn't absolutely adored.
So, clearly the decision to get another pet is not one that I take lightly. I already worry that Cassidy doesn't get enough attention because of how much time we spend with my Significant Other and his dog. But, then this stray little kitten showed up and needed a home, I found myself softening.
I was still really concerned about Cassidy, my time and my resources though, so I consulted a lot of other pet owners for help making a decision. Here's what all of my friends said when I was thinking about taking in a homeless cat:
"Oh my gosh, it's nothing like having a dog. Cats are so low maintenance."
"You don't need to worry about your furniture. That's what scratching posts are for."
"I don't know what it is, but cats just KNOW how to use a litter box. They don't have accidents, and you don't have to house train them."
Now, I love my friends dearly, so please forgive me when I say this (and remember that it's been a rather stressful week), but YOU ALL LIED.
My "low-maintenance" cat cries when he can't be in the same room with me. And do you know where he prefers to sleep? On my chest. Don't get me wrong -- he's cute -- but it's not exactly easy to get anything done when there's a cat glued to your collarbone. Plus, it's still September in Alabama, so I don't really require a semi-permanent neck warmer just yet.
The scratching post? A pointless expenditure at Wal-Mart that apparently can't hold a candle to my sofa, chairs and feet. I even drenched the sucker in cat nip. Effective? No. Smelly? Yes.
And when it comes to that litter box, don't even get me started. Either I have the one exception in the history of feline companionship or not all cats automatically know what to do when confronted with a pan full of odor-absorbing granules.
All of this adorable fluff really masks a needy, peeing destructor. Poor Cassidy -- who was supposed to end up with a part-time roommate who wanted little to nothing to do with us -- now has a sibling that camps on her mom's chest, marks her turf and thinks her tail is a fascinating toy to be chewed and batted.
Of course, the real problem is that it's all too late anyway. The cat isn't going anywhere. Neither is Cassidy, and neither am I. We're in it together now -- unused scratching post and all.
Haircut Hiccups
Week before last, I got a haircut. (I'm pictured at right, and even after my visit to the salon, I'm not blond.)
I decided it was time for a cut. I've worn my hair long for the last few years, and I needed a change. Since I've gone "freelance," much to my chagrin and that of the Significant Other, I've gotten a bit more lax about personal hygiene and dressing up. I can only think of two days out of the last 60 that my hair hasn't been in a ponytail. A shorter cut seemed like a good way to force my hair out of its rut.
(Laurel's two-step plan for improved physical appearance:
Step 1: New cut to avoid the ponytail.
Step 2: Change out sweatpants more than once per week.
I'll keep you posted on the progress of the second half of the plan.)
I've been very happy with my cut. I miss my hair some -- it's about six inches shorter -- but after the shock of that first shower when then just wasn't anything to wash, I've adjusted nicely. But, there's always been just one obstacle to my complete enjoyment of shorter hair.
That obstacle's name is Jennifer Love-Hewitt.
I wasn't even that big a fan of Miss Love-Hewitt's until a few years ago, but I've always found her hair quite intoxicating. Yes, I do like shows where women talk to dead people, but the real reason I watch Ghost Whisperer is for the hair and eyelashes.
I want Jennifer's hair, and I always have. I like the loose curls at the end of her long locks. I love the toned down highlights. I appreciate how the perfectly tousled pieces fall just right. Of course, it takes me a minimum of one hour's time, two products and lots of time with a large-barreled curling iron to even begin to approximate this look, but every time I do, I'm enamored with myself. (And that's all that really matters, right?)
Sure, I don't have that hour every day. Or most days. Nor do I have the inclination, but one glimpse of a Ghost Whisperer promo is enough to make me want to trade the weeks I spend with cute, shorter hair for the one day out of a season I could manipulate my long hair into something like this.
I suppose we all have our Achilles' heels. I'll count myself luckier than most that Jennifer Love-Hewitt happens to be mine.
In Which I Learn That I'm Not as Funny as I Thought
I spent Labor Day weekend at my parents' lake house with some friends and the significant other (SO). While we were all hanging out in Coosa County, we decided to eat lunch in Alexander City. And, since Cecil's Public House was closed, and I couldn't seem to get a group consensus on Jim Bob's Chicken Fingers, J.R.'s Sports Bar & Grill was the establishment of choice.
(My father's favorite spot for lunch in Alexander City is the Carlisle Drug Soda Fountain. I'm sure the food is great, but having visited, I think the main appeal for my father is the frugality. The man who refuses to pay more than a quarter for a soda -- and who made us travel to Europe with our own Cokes so we wouldn't ended up paying "ridiculous" European price tags for cola -- can have a selection of sandwiches for $2.65. Yes, it's rather amazing in this day and age. No, the Soda Fountain is not somehow located in 1970.)
J.R.'s has everything the sports bar needs -- chicken fingers, wings, big TVs and rolls of paper towels on the tables instead of napkins. I also appreciate a restaurant that knows its audience and does what it does well.
In case you can't read the menu from the photo, J.R.'s has a relatively limited bar menu. These are your options: wine (white only, there's no red), margaritas, Pina Colada, Fuzzy Navel, Tequila Sunrise, Jack & Coke, Crown & Coke or Scotch & Coke. (Personally, I really want to meet someone who's ordered a Tequila Sunrise in the last decade.) I can only imagine how many people had to order Scotch & Coke before it earned a permanent spot on the menu.
The SO and I both ordered the fingers and wings combo. It included chicken fingers, buffalo wings, french fries and Texas toast and was absolutely delicious. I enjoyed every bite, but it's entirely possible that the SO enjoyed his even more. He ordered the hot wings, as opposed to my mild ones, and spent most of his meal sweating and/or crying. Apparently, he did so much sweating/crying that the waitress mentioned it.
"Did you like those?" she asked.
"I liked them very much," SO said. "I always cry when I'm happy."
That's when I chimed in, "That's what he tells me all the time, but I'm not sure if I believe him."
Afterwards, our waitress stared at me for a long, non-laughing, smile-less time. Finally, she said, "Oh. I get it now." Beat. "Is this all on one check?"
I proceeded to hang my head in shame.
Of course, I've had jokes fail before, but at least I usually get a bit of pity laughter. But, there was no pity laughter in Alexander City. There wasn't even a pity smile in Alexander City. I imagine that this moment was like a preview for when I have children and one of them declares -- in a state of extreme teen angst, of course -- "Maybe, I don't want to be funny!" or "You're not funny, Mom!"
Because, let's face it, you can send a lot of insults my way -- I don't have a job, I'm a single Southern girl turning 30 and what my hair will do from day to day is a total crap shoot -- but I've always tried to maintain my sense of humor. "Funny" is a descriptor I prize far above many others.
I'll get over this soon enough, but it really is too bad for my friends we'll never be able to eat at J.R.'s again. I can only accomplish so much, the rest is up to denial and avoidance.
Avoiding The Hangover
I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.
However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.
Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.
Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?
Doug: Sounds perfect.
Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?
Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room.
Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:
Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?
Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.
Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.
Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?
Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.
Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?
Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!
Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?
Woman 1: He was special.
Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?
Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.
Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...
And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.
An Argument With History
Florence, Alabama is home to the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the state of Alabama. (Don't worry. This is my last Florence-themed post. Sometimes I can't help myself I have so much to say.) The Wright-Rosenbaum house is also one of only 60 Frank Lloyd Wright houses open to the general public. And, I was already in Florence, so I figured why not take a tour.
The Wright-Rosenbaum house is under 3,000 square feet, so there's not a ton to see, but because it was a Tuesday, and I think our tour guide was bored, the SO and I got a private guided tour that lasted over an hour. (Such details aren't for everyone ...) If I was better at math, I could let you know how much time was spent on each inch of the house. Since I'm not a numbers gal, I'll just estimate that our tour guide left no stone unturned in his description of the home.
I loved being able to see a piece of architectural history. I also like anything that makes me feel smarter, so learning details about Frank Lloyd Wright, Florence history and details of the home was a great time for me. But, what I really took away from the tour is that I could never have had a Frank Lloyd Wright home.
I didn't know about Frank Lloyd Wright's very controlling (and often egotistical) ways. This is how I would imagine our encounters:'
Meeting #1
Me: I really think I need more closet space in the master bedroom.
Darkness and stares from Frank Lloyd Wright.
Me: Maybe a walk-in?
FLW: If you don't like the closets I've provided, what you need is fewer clothes.
Meeting #2
Me: These doors seem small. How big are they?
FLW: 22 inches wide [this is the real number from the Wright-Rosenbaum house].
Me: Honey, my family is Southern. We like the fried foods. I don't think this is the best long-term plan.
More darkness and stares from FLW: I can fit through them, so everyone should be able to.
Meeting #3
Me: I think this chair would look better on the other side of the living room.
FLW: I already bolted it to the floor.
Until the tour, I had no idea that Frank Lloyd Wright wrote contracts preventing occupants of his homes from acquiring new furniture, rearranging rooms or putting art on the walls without his approval. (He didn't like art because his home was the art.) And I didn't make up that detail about him bolting furniture to the floor so that it wouldn't be moved. I don't think Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have even made it to three meetings before the relationship imploded. Pardon the third person, but if Laurel's paying, Laurel gets what she wants.
Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have been like oil and water -- or like matching poles of a magnet that repel each other rather than attract. There can only be one lead dog, after all.
All photos by the great Arik Sokol.
You'll Have to Take my Word on This One
Now, I know this doesn't count as a celebrity sighting, but I swear that while I was in Florence, I saw the Gorton's fisherman.
I was in Swamper's, the hotel bar and lounge, and a local musician was on stage. The SO and his partners in crime were filming guests enjoying their drinks and fans listening to the music. I looked over towards the bar and saw an older gentleman with a short mess of gray hair and a beer in front of him. He was also wearing -- no joke -- a yellow rain jacket that ran down to his knees.
(I would have taken a picture for the sake of authenticity and verification, but I didn't think the SO would appreciate my taking photos of hotel patrons that look like popular trademarks for my own amusement while he was hard at work. I try not to embarrass him at work -- emphasis on try.)
Of course, what really gave the icon away was the blank stare we're all so accustomed to seeing carved into wooden figurines that populate mantles all over the middle Atlantic.
I can only imagine the stock pile of fish sticks he had in his room.
A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy
WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents.
Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”)
Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)
Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”
Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees.
Damnthose buttons.
Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.
Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.
Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.
Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant.
Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.
But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said.
“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …”
Neversay never, I suppose.
My Trip to Publix
"I'd like spicy mustard and lite mayo on the sandwich, please."
"I gotta tell you. That says lite mayo, but it isn't actually lite mayo," the lovely woman behind the deli counter told me. "It's the regular stuff. Do you still want it?"
"Oh, yeah."
"OK, but it won't be lite."
"That's fine. I'll pretend," I said. "I'm very good at lying to myself."
Most surprsingly, unlike most Publix employees I share too much with, the deli woman laughed and said that sounded good to her.
For the "Truth is Stranger Than Fiction" File
Christmas break my senior year of college, oneof my friends became infatuated with the drummer of a relativelypopular local band. Because of her crush, we spent most of our breakfrom school attending the group's nightly shows.
One Wednesday, we found ourselves at a small bar/coffee house. Afterwe had our drinks in hand, we looked for seats only to notice a prettydiverse crowd. It certainly wasn't the sea of college kids and young20-somethings we were used to seeing at the band's shows.
There were a lot more middle aged men in the crowd, and a lot of thewomen were carrying around plastic magic wands. One woman, inparticular, really stood out -- she was more than a bit overweight, hadA LOT of hair and wore a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. (DidI mention that this show was still during prime time television hourson a Wednesday? Not really feather boa attire time in my book.)
Shortly thereafter, we learned that in addition to the band's show,a group of people from a local Internet chat room had decided to meetin person for the first time that evening.The magic wands helped identify the group, and their name tags all had their screen names on them.
The name tag of the woman with the red boa read "Angry Snatch."
We all learned that the Internet is a fascinating and terrifying place. And that you just never can tell with some people.
Pat Conroy, Writing and Family
Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)
I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.
Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."
That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.
"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."
"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)
"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."
Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order
As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.
Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.
When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.
My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.
In the Music City, I say Cowboy Troy at an Oyster Bar. (For those unfamiliar with the Cowboy's work, he was at the forefront of a movement known as Hick-Hop, a stunning collaboration of country music and hip-hop. His most famous song, "I Played Chicken With the Train," featured the lyrics "I played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train y'all.") He wore a cowboy hat, lots of bling and was surrounded by some, uh, interesting ladies.
I ran into former model Niki Taylor at the Target. (Side note: Niki Taylor is covered in tattoos. And not just Japanese symbols and delicate butterflies. Niki Taylor has some deep ink on her, which I take as a real testament to the power of Hollywood concealers.) Niki Taylor seemed nervous around me. I think she thought I was following her because she was famous. In fairness, I was following her, but it was because she had the attention of the one Target employee in a 100-foot radius and apparently both the super model and I needed shower heads that day. Who knew?
And last but not least, I saw Christian Kane at Joey's House of Pizza. (Yes, I used to eat at Joey's House of Pizza. It was located in a strip mall, had a soup Nazi-esque calzone maker and I don't think I could have loved it more.) For those of you wondering who Christian Kane is, I will acknowledge that unless you were obsessed with a certain vampire slayer and her true love vampire-with-a-soul who got his own spin-off show, you probably wouldn't recognize the name. Christian Kane was lawyer Lindsay on the first two seasons of Angel -- his character's main attribute was a prosthetic hand. I think today he's best known for bad hair and TNT's Leverage.
So, I'm in Joey's House of Pizza kind of staring at Christian Kane because while I think I recognize him, I'm not quite sure. (I have no idea his name is even Christian Kane until I go back to the office and IMDB him.) And Christian Kane is looking back at me kind of like he wants to be recognized. (I do imagine it's an exciting event for smaller stars.) And we're both trying to avoid leaving covered in tomato sauce.
In the end, I never approached Christian Kane. I just didn't think, "Hey, aren't you the guy from the vampire show with a girl's name and a fake hand?" was an appropriate lead-in to conversation. Oh well.