A Trip Abroad
My parents left for a cruise yesterday. They’ll board a shipin Venice and then visit Greece, Croatiaand Turkey.As they were getting ready for their trip, I was reminded of my first trip to Italy in thespring of my senior year of high school.
My high school’s Latin teacher took a group of students to Italyeveryyear (or every other year, I’m not sure I can remember which at this point). Myyear, there were 16 of us going, and I’ve rarely been so excited for avacation. I was lucky to have visited Europe before – London, Paris and Ireland -- but there was something about Italy.I imagined myself surrounded by art, buying tons and tons of clothes and eatingas much pizza as I could stand.
I was surrounded by art, but the clothes were still quite abit out of my price range (no “discount” Prada for me), and thanks to some sortof ridiculous travel bug, I could barely keep anything down, let alone eat myweight in pizza.
Because of this very unpleasant stomach problem, I ended upin a pharmacy in Florence having one of the most awkward conversations a teen girl can have.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Do you have any Pepto?” Admittedly, itwas naïve of me to expect that I could ask for an American pharmaceutical brandname, in English, in Italy,but I was miserable. And, I hoped that the pink stuff was universal.
The woman behind the counter didn’t answer my question atall. She just stared at me before going off to find a man in a white coat. “Yes?”he said.
“I was wondering if you had any Pepto.”
“Pepto?”
“Stomach stuff. I have an upset stomach.”
“Oh,” he said and nodded. “You have the cramps.”
“No, no, not the cramps,” I said. “Upset stomach.”
“Yes,” he nodded again. “The cramps.” Then he looked over somemedicines behind the counter. “Woman problems.”
“No, not woman problems. Stomach problems.”
“The cramps,” he said even louder while motioning with hishands in wide circles in front of what I think was his imaginary uterus. “Thecramps!”
Just a little FYI here, teenage girls don’t like to talkabout their periods. Buying tampons is beyond an ordeal for adolescents, and wego to great lengths to hide these womanly matters from our male peers and mostothers. Having a strange man in a foreign land yell about cramps while comingup with hand motions to illustrate his point is a tad bit, well, mortifying. (Also, I was pretty sure whatever he wanted to give me wasn't going to work. Otherwise, I probably could have sucked it up and given it a shot. But, Midol wasn't going to cut it.)
“Cramps,” he said one last time before digging for moremedicine.
Having turned bright red by now, I ran from the store while thepharmacist was checking his inventory. We clearly weren’t getting anywhere.
Eventually, my stomach just settled itself out, and I wasthoroughly grateful for the absence of pain and the fact that I wouldn’t haveto try that conversation again.
So, here’s to wishing my parents a trip without smallhumiliations, and here’s to learning to buy medicines for any and allsituations before leaving the country. It’s not a mistake I’ve made since.
The Great Outdoors
In so many ways, I was never destined for the outdoors. My fair skin and appeal to mosquitoes are only the beginning -- direct sunlight hurts my eyes, I don't like being hot and I try to avoid dirt whenever possible. If there's not a pool within a five foot radius, I'd just rather be inside. (FYI: that puts you closer to the bar and reality TV, too.)
Which is why any urge I have to do yard work always surprises me. (Keep in mind I said "urge." It's rarely fulfilled -- hence my lawn looks the way it does. I'd like to blame the stolen lawnmower, but I had lost the battle against weeds and growth long before that.)
I think it's the Type A/OCD side of me that wants to work in the yard. I like things to be neat and ordered. My yard tends to be anything but. Some would call this laziness. I blame the aforementioned genetics/quirks.
But, lately, not even I can ignore how bad my yard has gotten. I dream about towering weeds, creeping vines and sink holes. So, for the past two days, I've ventured out. Gardening gloves on, clippers in hand, rake by my side, I decided to do yard work.
I picked up branches. I pulled weeds. I piled debris on the curb to be picked up. It felt good. I felt like a real homeowner.
Then, as I was pulling some dead vines up, I saw it. A little baby garden snake slithered in front of me before disappearing back into the ground. Being a big girl now, I didn't scream. I didn't even jump back. I acknowledged that it was just a little garden snake -- to myself, over and over again. I kept working in the yard. I congratulated myself on being so mature and brave. About 20 minutes later, I packed up for the day and headed inside.
Sometime in the night though, everything changed. (It didn't help that I watched the "Fringe" episode about a genetically-engineered, part-snake monster, but bygones.) I thought way too much about small, slithery snakes. (And not just because of my love of alliteration.) Sure, that was just a baby garden snake, but where were its brothers and sisters? Or, worse yet, its mama? That snake had been much smaller than the creature I saw last year, but how much could a creature grow in 12 months?
It took 24 whole hours for me to lose my nerve.
I went back into the great outdoors today, but my new found anxiety made me wary of touching the ground or plants, and let's just say it's pretty hard to get much accomplished in the yard when you're only willing to poke at anything green with the end of your rake.
As soon as I figure out how to make money on this here blog (or any other venture for that matter), I'm hiring a landscape firm to deal with all the creepy crawlies, snakes and creatures around my house. Until then, the lawn is theirs.
Always an Overachiever
Most little girls want to be princesses.
Few take it this far ...
Yes, my favorite accesorry in five-year-old kindergarten was a tiara. And if you're thinking that I only had on my crown because picture day was special, you'd be wrong. I wore my tiara to school most days.
While it did not let me rule over my peers, as I had hoped, it did make me somewhat infamous. Only going away to college allowed me to escape the legacy of this photo.
Proof I was Never Destined for a Body with Rock Hard Abs
And clearly, this is even back in the day when I exercised if the football and helmet are to be believed.
With that settled, I'm going to get back to my lunch of Oatmeal Cream Pies and Cadbury Creme Eggs now.
Green Bags, the LDS and Secret Hair
I am a sucker for as seen on TV products.
At last count, I own a Malibu Pilates chair, the Pedi-Paws nail trimming system, the Shed Ender for pet grooming, a Ped-Egg, ProActive, green bags and bread bags. (I don't actually buy most of my as seen on TV products off the television since most of them can be found at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and I always have a coupon for that store, but that's really neither here nor there.)
And despite some people's opinions, I'm also considering Aqua Globes, Hercules Hooks and trading in my old gold jewelry for cash. (Those gold-seekers own the refinery so they can cut out the middle man and put more money in your pocket!)
For awhile in the late '90s, I even wanted a pressure cooking system(despite the fact that I lived in a dorm room) and Jose Eber Secret Hair, but thankfully, no one would give me much of a credit line back then.
I do draw the line at the Xpress 101, though. Sure, I love the idea of having meals in just four minutes, but the fact that all the food comes out looking the same just freaks me out. A calzone, stuffed chicken breast and lemon pie shouldn't be identical when they hit the table. It's just not right.
Now, you may think that I have problem (and you might be right), but my devotion to as seen on TV products is yet another thing I blame on my insomnia. I also think that I can attribute my Ebay addiction, love of all B movies and the belief I briefly held in the winter of 1999 that I could become fluent in Spanish by watching enough Telemundo to my insomnia.
There's not a whole lot to do between 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. (and this was particularly true in the pre-Internet days) other than watch television. And that's what certain people are counting on.
Here's who wants your attention when you can't sleep and probably aren't thinking clearly: the infomercials with products, the infomercials with motivational tapes about anxiety and depression and the Mormons. (No offense meant to the Mormons. I've seen a whole lot of commercials for the LDS church in the wee hours of the morn'. It's just true.)
Insomnia is bad enough -- the frustration of wanting to sleep but not being able to, knowing you'll be exhausted the next day at school/work -- and when you add eight potential hours of shopping to that, it's just no good. No one needs bags under their eyes and the shame that comes with looking your mailman in the eye as he hands you a box with "Time Life" as the return address.
Neighborhood Watch
In the past few days or so, I've gotten new neighbors. Now, since I don't have the best of luck with neighbors, one of the features I love most about my house is that it's on the end of a cul-de-sac (since I don't live in a suburb, I think I'm really on a dead end rather than a cul-de-sac, but bygones). Because of my prime location, I only have one real neighbor rather than the customary two.
The house next door to me has also been vacant since August, so I've gotten really spoiled with the whole no neighbors thing. No one keeps me up late at night with loud trance music, no one wakes me up mowing the lawn at sun up on Saturdays and no one knocks on the door trying to sell me wrapping paper or candy bars for their kid's school.
Since neighbors aren't my favorite thing, I was hoping for a quiet young professional or someone who travels a lot. I did not want frat boys.
Unfortunately, based on the number of beer bottles by the trash can one Sunday morning, I figured my worst nightmare had come true -- I had fratastic neighbors.
Great, I thought. Now there are going to be parties all the time. And music. And kegs. And they'll probably even expect me to come to some of the parties. Ugh.
Yesterday, I finally met these new neighbors, who I think are college seniors.
"I'm Laurel, and I'm sorry I haven't introduced myself sooner."
"No worries. I'm John."
"Are y'all renting, John?"
"Yes ma'am."
Ma'am. Now, I've been called "ma'am" before, but it was always by my little cousins or tweens at the mall whose moms were watching. No one in college has ever called me ma'am. Ever. A few years ago, guys his age were hitting on me. Now they call me ma'am.
"I hope we didn't keep you up the other night," John said next.
Now, not only am I a ma'am, but I'm also the dreaded lady neighbor who might call the cops if you have too much fun. I kept thinking about the Friends episode when Chandler becomes the angry downstairs neighbor who pounds on the ceiling to make the noise stop.
On the bright side, I guess I don't need to worry about having to attend their parties. Apparently, the only way my new neighbors expect to see me when they're socializing is if I show up in a bathrobe and curlers demanding that they "turn that darn boom box down."
The Awkward Phase
We've all been there. (Or, at least, most of us have. And chances are if you chose a "sensitive career" like writing, painting or counseling, you spent far more time there than the rest of the population.)
Here is a photo of my own terrible awkward phase. I'm sure you'll notice most of the hallmarks: 1. terrible short hair cut, 2. over-sized ears, 3. braces and 4. a flat chest.
At the time, I believed my friends when they said that I didn't really look like a boy, despite some passing comments I heard at the mall once. But a few months ago, I was looking at an old year book, when I saw a photo of myself during this time.
"Wow, I guess I really did look like a boy," I said out loud.
"What photo are you even looking at Laurel?" a friend asked. I pointed. "Oh, I thought that was Stephen."
I'm sure you can see why I didn't date much in the early years of high school. And also why I always took it as a compliment if people "didn't recognize me" from school.
Luckily, those years are behind me (except on some days when I break out or can't get my hair to behave and my inner insecure 14-year-old re-emerges), and I can laugh knowing that it was all part of growing up. But what I often wonder about is how parents get through those awkward years.
I mean, objectively speaking, you've got to know what's going on. In these years, I was not "cute."
I even still remember the episode of Full House when Danny tries to counsel D.J. about being less developed than the other girls and refers to The Ugly Duckling. Of course, no girl who already feels bad about herself wants to hear about anything "ugly."
Much like diaper genies and having to help with math homework,this is yet another thing that baffles me about parenthood. (Word problems? Are you serious?) I guess it ends up that a parent's love is bigger than all of that.
And to my own mom and dad, thanks for all the compliments between 13-15 -- even when I looked like this. I appreciate it.
A Little Girl's Dream
This past weekend, I went to two days of Davis Cup matches held here in Birmingham. I'm not necessarily the biggest tennis fan, but I like to experience new things, and I thought I shouldn't pass up the chance to watch some professional tennis played live. And I may or may not have wanted to see Andy Roddick, but let's not rate my motivations here.
Watching so much tennis reminded me of one of my rather odd childhood dreams: to be a ball girl.
For some reason or other, I really wanted to be one of the people that runs out on the court to grab stray tennis balls.
I imagine that a large part of my motivation was the outfit. Like most activities, including ice skating and tap dance, I was mainly in it for the clothes. As a girl who refused to wear pants as a child ("because ladies didn't do that") and often sported a tiara to school (like that one should really come as a surprise), I would do a lot for sequins or cute skirts. It must have been the skirt because as much as I remember loving tennis skirts, I also remember loathing the one tennis lesson my mom made me take.
I'm guessing the other motivation might have been that ball girl seemed like a pretty fool-proof way to participate in sports. I closed my eyes when the ball came towards me in batting practice, and it took a lot of Barbies for me to make the move from the kiddie pool to actual swimming, so I did a lot more bench-sitting than playing when it came to sports.
Another activity I joined for the outfit, cheer leading, even ended in humiliating defeat when I was on a squad that earned the "most improved" award at cheer leading camp. (Next to being at mascot camp -- sorry mascots -- winning the pity award at Southern cheer leading camp is no more prestigious than my time spent on the Math team.)
Although, as an adult, I can now see that being a ball girl would have been just as terrible as playing actual sports for me. Imagining myself in the role of ball girl at the Davis Cup, I envisioned a lot of tennis balls bouncing off my body and farther down the court, poor rolls that interrupted play and many, many dropped towels. (Never throw keys in my direction. Just trust me on that one.)
Plus, with matches that last at least two hours long, I would have been strolling towards the ball rather than running after it within a half hour. And that crouching position? Not with these knees.
In short, ball girls (and boys) of the world, I salute you. I'm pretty sure that blogging about watching a tennis event is as close as I'll get to the actual court ever again.
Friday Night Fever
A few weeks ago, I went down to Mobile for the Osiris Mardi Gras ball.(Osiris is the only all-inclusive Mardi Gras ball in Mobil, if you getmy drift. In 2008, there were two kings rather than the standard kingand queen.) I had a great time, and despite my normal aversion toparades, I found that my love for free stuff far outweighs my disdainof floats and crowds. Once I had collected a few dozen moon pies, somenecklaces and a plastic rose, I deemed the Mardi Gras parade a success.
Anyways, on my way down, I had to stop for gas.
Now,I am not a stopper. When I'm on a long car trip, my pit stops areminimal. My poor sister still complains that when we drove home for theholidays from D.C. she was allowed two stops — one in Roanoke and onein Knoxville. (Those are the cities 1/3 and 2/3 of the way home foranyone wondering about the logic.) A common conversation went somethinglike this:
Rachael: Laurel, I think I need to go to the bathroom.
Me: Ooh ... Hmmm ... Do you think you could hold it for awhile?
Rachael: How long is awhile?
Me: Two hours ... two and a half hours tops ...
With the rideto Mobile being about four hours, I figured that I could have one stop,max. I would have to get gas, food and a bathroom break all in oneplace. And, since I knew I wouldn't have much time between arriving inMobile and going to the ball, I also had to pick up anything I mighthave forgotten there. (I usually have to find an exit with a CrackerBarrel for the books on tape and a BP gas station for my gas card, sothis particular combination wasn't even really all that taxing.)
Ipulled over in Clanton for the Whataburger and the BP station with theconvenience store. There, I bought batteries for my digital camera,minis of white zinfandel for my pre-ball cocktail and duct tape for myboobs. (I couldn't wear a bra with the dress I had brought.) I stillfelt somewhat shameful about my shopping list three hours later, so Ihad to tell my friend R about it.
Me: Is it sad that I bought batteries, white zin and duct tape in a Clanton convenience store to start this Friday night off?
R: What's sadder is that most Friday nights in Clanton probably start out that way.
From the mouths of gays, I say. From the mouths of gays ...
Super Models Have it Rough
Thanks to Cosmo (a gift subscription, I promise, and something I never would have read apart from the oh-so-ridiculous cover blurb "An Orgasm Almost Killed Her: We Are Not Kidding"), I have discovered the top three reasons I will never look like Victoria's Secret swim suit model Marisa Miller -- apart from genetics and an aversion to exercise, of course:
According to Marisa, one must "cut out soda, salt and booze. They cause bloating, so don't have them before you have to get into a swimsuit."
Oh, Marisa. Sure, you have a life of exotic travel, money and fabulous clothes, but a life withou Diet Coke and red wine? I don't think so. And no salt? Salt is a wonder. Have you ever had the bread at Macaroni Grill? The one covered in sea salt? And don't even get me started on kosher salt. Add kosher salt to a little olive oil, and I would probably eat in on anything. In fact, I find it makes green vegetables and anything whole wheat that much better ...
So, if the choice is soda, salt and booze or bathing suits, my vices are going to win (as per usual). And I think that's the way it should be.
An Open Letter to the Women of Rock of Love and the Teachers of America
As we all know, I love reality television. I don't consider myself a cruel person, but I do love watching people make fools of themselves in front of cameras. And since no one these days can claim that they "didn't know what there were getting into" with any sort of reality program, I don't even feel bad about it.
To that end, I spent most of my Saturday watching Rock of Love 3 and Tool Academy. (I'll get to Tool Academy later, but if you are not watching this show, you are missing out. Nine men are in boot camp so that can stop being crappy boyfriends. One contestant even had two girlfriends, and they switched places on the show in one episode. I ask, what is more amazing: that this dude had two girlfriends who didn't seem all that fazed finding out about the other one or that both of this guy's girlfriends signed him up for something called Tool Academy? Feel free to discuss.)
Anyways, on Saturday's Rock of Love, Ashley (of the near-beehive hairdo) referred to Rock of Love as "an opportunity," and I had an epiphany: This is why teaching English is so important.
If Ashley understood the meaning of the word "opportunity," then maybe her life would have taken a different path.
You see, Ashley, an opportunity is usually considered a good thing. Ask around. Here's what dictionary.com had to say about opportunity: 1. an appropriate or favorable time or occasion; 2. a situation or condition favorable for attainment of a goal; 3. a good position, chance, or prospect, as for advancement or success.
Examples of opportunities include going to a good college, getting a job with a great starting salary and benefits or finding a mentor in your field of interest.
The chance to sleep with Brett Michaels is not an opportunity. It's a chance to get crabs but not an "opportunity." Let's not confuse the two. Other options that should not be considered "opportunities" are meeting a guy in the food court who says he can make you a star if you pose for a few "artsy" photos, keeping the car running while your boyfriend runs into a bank he does not have an account at and letting anyone borrow your kitchen for a project "you're better off not knowing about."
Opportunities will not involve taking off your clothes, playing in mud with other women or crystal meth.
Let's remember: opportunity = good = self-respect. In general, none of these terms will overlap with Brett Michaels, Flavor Flav or I Love Money in any way, shape or form.
And teachers of the world, hold your heads high. Your job may seem thankless, but your efforts could stop the next Ashley, Bikini Girl or New York from making a fool of themselves on national television.
Or, at the very least, you might keep one little girl from making out with a man with a weave.
My Day
Well, I've been unemployed for three days. So far, I haven't gotten much done. According to What Color is Your Parachute, I'm allowed to sleep, apply for unemployment and check on my medical coverage in the first throes of unemployment, and that's it!
Check, check and check.
In the "absolute proof that God has a sense of humor" column, the lady handling my unemployment claim is a big Lipstick fan. She even had the February issue on her desk and verified my old position by checking the masthead.
Sigh.
Other than that, I've spent most of my time watching Law & Order, tinkering (successfully) with my washer/dryer connection and ordering weight loss drugs online. (Hey, if I'm going to be out of a job, I might as well be thin, too. Plus, hopefully I'll save money on grocery bills this way. It's time to ration, and a smaller stomach would make that much simpler.)
Truth be told, I want to take some time to figure out what I really want to do next. Life is short, after all, and I want to give my dreams my all, and yadda, yadda, yadda. While I know this is best for me, when I'm home during the day it's really hard for me to get the mental image of Goldie Hawn from Death Becomes Her out of my head. Not the svelte, gorgeous Goldie Hawn, but the obese one watching game shows, eating frosting from the tub and ignoring the police trying to fight their way into her apartment.
Double sigh.
The Missing
Every time an amber alert goes out or I see a missing persons bulletin, I, of course, think about the missing man, woman or child and his or her distraught family. But after I'm done worrying about what has happened to the poor soul and if he or she will ever be found, my thoughts always return to the same selfish, selfish notion: what pictures of me would my family post on television and fliers if I couldn't be found.
(I needlessly worry about what would be said about me if I ever died in a freak accident, too. I'm nice to my neighbors mainly because I don't want them telling some reporter "She was always walking that dog in a bathrobe and curlers" or "I never did see a man come around" should there be a tornado or flash flood. My friendliness on the block is about self-preservation and has nothing to do with block parties or borrowing sugar.)
Sure, if I was missing, my first concern should probably be rescue. And with my safety as the number one priority, you'd think that I'd want the most accurate and true-to-life photos out there. But I just can't have that many people seeing me without makeup, in velour pants, chowing down on a Krystal four pack.
(I haven't even mentioned the photos of myself that should never, ever, ever make the media rounds — nothing taken after midnight during my senior year of college, no pics from the summer I worked in a Mexican restaurant and devoured handfuls of fried tortilla on a daily basis and certainly nothing from the pixie cut years).
I can only think of a select handful of pictures incorporating good lighting and flattering angles of my very round face that I would want to have televised. (And they better get my weight from my driver's license and not the doctor's office.) While it might seem like these demands would hinder the search rather than help it, truth be told, I'm pretty sure people are more likely to look for an attractive girl than the one who might not have bathed in a week even under normal circumstances.
Plus, if my case made national news, I couldn't have Meredith Viera seeing what I wore for Halloween last year. It just wouldn't be right.
Picture with post is an example of what NOT to use when attempting to find a missing Laurel.
Foot in Mouth Disease
I have a sense of humor that's not for everyone.
Anyone who has visited this blog before or picked up a copy of Lipstick probably knows this already, but the truth is that I tone myself down in print. If we were at the same cocktail party, I might be overhead talking about what differentiates my starting line Spanx from their second string counterparts or any one of a bevy of other topics that really aren't appropriate for discussion on a Monday morning in one's place of business. (Seriously, every example I just thought of to finish that last sentence cannot be entertained without more forgiving lighting and wine. My cousin and I were once engaged in a trading of jokes and one-liners that led to an argument as to who would be struck down by lightning first. Sadly, we agreed it would be me.)
I accept that many people think It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is a terrible, terrible display of what I wrong with our society. I think it's hilarious. Again, my tastes/self are not for everyone.
Usually, this kind of self-awareness just means that I have to choose friends who are extremely, er, tolerant or keep my mouth shut in public. (And, since keeping my thoughts to myself only worked for about 20 minutes in 1994, if then, I mainly stick with the "picking similar friends" strategy.) For the most part, this means that my humor is appreciated, but being Southern, there's always one fatal flaw to this plan — showers.
As we all know, when you're invited to a wedding or baby shower, you don't just get to see your friend or even your friend group, you're going to be thrown in with people from all walks of your friend's life — be that elementary school, college, summer jobs, relatives or family friends.
This is not an environment in which I shine.
And this was quite clear yesterday when I made a joke about brides and heavy sedation at a friend's shower. There was some staring. And some nervous laughter. I even got an elbow to the ribs from one friend and a "did you really say that out loud to the whole room?" wide-eyed glare.
(It reminded me of the time that my cousins told me I could not say "butt" around their children because it was a bad word. I had been so proud of myself for remembering not to say "a%#.")
So, here's how I exited yesterday's event:
Bride: "Thank you so much for the cocktail plates."
Me: "I'm so sorry I said 'xanax' at your wedding shower."
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.
Chick Flicks
Based on a friend's recommendation, I decided to rent Waitress this weekend. For those of you who haven't seen it, Waitress is Adrienne Shelly's last film. (She was murdered in her New York apartment shortly after finishing the movie.) Waitress revolves around a pregnant, pie-making waitress (Keri Russell) trapped in a bad marriage. When she meets the new doctor in town (played by Nathan Fillion, my new future husband), things start to look up. I'll try not to give too much away, but if you're especially concerned about spoilers, I might not read any further.
For some strange reason that probably involves me not paying attention or some level of denial, I thought that Waitress was a happy movie. I might even have considered it a romantic comedy. Now, it is a lovely movie with wonderful performances, but I would not describe it as "happy."
At the movie's conclusion, I cried -- or sobbed, depending on your perspective -- and continued to cry for about 20 minutes after the credits finished rolling. sure this wasn't quite as bad as The Way we Were incident of 2001 (in which my former boss asked me two days later if I was going to be OK) or The Ring debacle of 2002 (in which I didn't sleep for four days out of sheer terror), but it wasn't good.
Am I a little too sensitive when it comes to movies? Obviously. But when they get to me, they get to me. And Waitress certainly touched a nerve.
In the last six months, I have helped launch a magazine, negotiated a car purchase, bought a house and learned to replace screening. Of course, I've had help from those around me and some good advice, but I've done a lot of it on my own. I don't worry about being independent, and I have faith in my ability to take care of myself. What I need faith in right now is romantic relationships. I'd like to know that true partnerships exist and that it is possible to be happy with oneself and with someone else.
And again, I'm trying not to give too much away, but let's just say that the movie didn't help me with that.
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.)
Living the Dream
Thank God I'm Decent Looking
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?
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.
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