Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers
Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:
5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie
So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.
Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.
They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.
It kills me. Every. Single. Time.
4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End
I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.
And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.
None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.
What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.
3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death
I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.
Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.
2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming
Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.
However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.
Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.
My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.
1. Lost: The Final Journey
Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.
Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.
I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.
Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.
Part 1: My Top 10 TV Tearjjerkers
The other day, over Mexican food, the SO accidentally mistook Scott Bakula for Scott Wolf. While for most couples, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, being the Quantum Leap fan that I am, this was something I had to correct and assure would never happen again. Somehow, I managed to go from telling him how to never mistake the two again to tearing up over salsa as I recounted the end of the Quantum Leap series and the most pivotal episodes that led to it.
I know.
So, in light of the fact that I've already almost started crying this week just telling the story of Quantum Leap's end, I thought I would take on the topic head-on and present my list of the most tear-jerking TV moments. Warning: there will be lots of spoilers. I also had to split this post in two because, apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic.
10. Alf's Special Christmas
It only seems fair to begin this list where it all began. In 1987, I was a big fan of Alf, the Alien Life Form, who lived with the Tanners. (He always wanted to eat the cat!) During that year's Christmas special, Alf somehow ended up in the hospital with a very sick girl named Tiffany. I think Tiffany had leukemia, and I also think she died or was dying. (This is hard to confirm through any Internet sources. It seems that no one has bothered to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of Alf, and I, for one, am shocked.) The idea of a dying child was too much for me, and I just started sobbing. I cried and cried. I cried so much, my father decided to have a talk with me about the difference between fantasy and reality and moving on.
Clearly, it didn't stick.
9. Cheers: The Finale
Even though I was also relatively young when I watched Cheers, I remember loving the show. Woody and his naivete, Carla the sassy waitress and, of course, Sam. Who didn't love Sam Malone, the scamp? And if you didn't, I don't really want to know you.
In the episode when Diane left, my memory is that she and Sam are alone in the bar. She's going, but she just wants to say "see you later" or something like that. Once she left the bar, Sam said, "Have a nice life." At the time, I thought, "How does he know she isn't coming back?" and "Adult life is complicated."
When the show went off the air, and Sam was left alone in his bar -- the implication being that Cheers was the true love of his life -- I, again, cried like a baby.
8. Party of Five: The Intervention
You've got a family of five who has already lost both of their parents to a drunk driver. They have to keep the family restaurant going. Rebellious Charlie has to be a dad, and then you go and throw in the normal teenage stuff like lost virginity, break-ups, drugs and pregnancy scares. On top of all this, sometime in season three, Bailey becomes an alcoholic and begins driving drunk, oh irony of ironies. Of course, the family has to intervene.
All of the siblings are there, and even Sarah, the ex-girlfriend shows up, because she loves him that much. I won't get into all of the lines that killed me because nothing about this episode wasn't a tear-fest for me. But, in the end, when Bailey brushes Claudia aside to walk out on his family and picks drinking over them, there was a breakdown.
7. House: Wilson's Heart
Sure, for the most part, I didn't like a lot of season 4 (too little Cameron). I also couldn't stand Amber. That doesn't mean it didn't crush me when she died. House has the key to saving her, somewhere in his fragmented memory, only to realize that there's nothing anyone can do. She's going to die no matter what, and so they wake Amber up for everyone to say goodbye.
Oh, Wilson. Twice-divorced, finally-found-love Wilson. It was all too much for me. I just laid on the couch and sobbed. All over that poor cut-throat bitch.
6. Quantum Leap: Mirror Image
Clearly, if I can'tget through a burrito without crying over this one, it affected me. Thethree episodes that had gotten to me most before this were, of course,M.I.A. (when Sam won't tell Al's wife Beth that Al is coming home tohim from Vietnam, even though Al begs for it, because Sam believes theyshould not use their leaps for selfish reasons), The Leap Home (whenSam leaps into his own teenage self and sees his dead father andbrother again) and The Leap Home: Part 2 (when Sam does change historyselfishly to save his brother in Vietnam, and in the end, also keeps Alfrom being rescued early and going home to Beth).
So, Samspends most of this leap in the series finale trying to figure out where he isand why he can finally see his own reflection in the mirror. It's hisbirthday. He keeps seeing people he recognizes from the past. He andthe bartender banter and argue. Is the bartender God? Sam says thathe's done enough. The bartender asks if he really has, if he's really done. Sam is supposed to accept that he is the one leaping him through time and space. For the firsttime in five years (in a way), Sam will be able to choose where he leaps next.Will he finally go home?
No, he goes back to Beth, and he tellsher that Al will come home to her. "Georgia on my Mind" plays in the background. Theviewer learns that Beth and Al remain married happily for the rest oftheir lives and have four children. Dr. Sam Beckett never leaps home.
Give me just a minute here. The keyboard is a little wet.
More to come ...
A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course
I think most little girls go through a phase when they're obsessed with horses. I'm not sure what it is about horses that's so fascinating when you have two X chromosomes and are under the age of 10, but there you have it.
At five, my favorite show to watch after school was Black Beauty. (At least, I think that's what it was called. There was a horse. It was black. It may or may not have been the main character, but it came on after Today's Special, and that's what I called it.) I had many My Little Ponies in addition to a score of off-brand plastic horses that I also liked to gallop across the living room floor. I even did my own horse impersonation that involved neighing. (I can only imagine now how annoying that must have been.)
A few years later, my horse obsession still strong but no longer My-Little-Pony-focused, I was a dedicated viewer or Mr. Ed on Nick at Nite. I watched that crazy talking horse every single night, and every single night, I hoped for Wilbur's sake that someone else would just hear that horse talk. Oh, that wily Mr. Ed -- he was a stinker.
I dreamed of owning my own horse and brushing its mane. I wanted to be so good with horses that I'd be like one of those shaggy-haired dudes who played by no one's rules but his own but could tame a wild mustang like you would not believe. (I either wanted to be like that person -- but a girl, how crazy! -- or marry him. At eight, I was still torn.)
For years, I thought that I couldn't love anything more than horses. That was until, of course, I actually rode one.
It was summer camp, and horseback riding was one of the class offerings. I was beside myself. What color would my horse be? Could I feed him carrots or oats? How long would it reasonably take until we started jumping gates together? Three days? Four?
"You're up," the counselor called on the first day after a couple of girls had gotten on horses in front of me. "So, just swing that leg on over."
That was the first problem. Being less than five feet tall and all torso, it's not exactly easy to throw your leg over a horse's saddle -- even when a ladder is involved.
"That's OK," the counselor said after another counselor had to come over and help her pull me on top of the horse. "I'm sure you'll get it next time." While I appreciated her optimism, I also knew that two weeks was not enough time for me to grown another six inches.
Once we had all mounted our horses, we started off down a trail. Everyone else seemed to have no trouble staying in line, but my horse had little interest in staying on the trail. So, not only was I hit with the occasional twig, I was also being reprimanded by my counselor for deviating from the path. (I did not like to be reprimanded at that age. I was the kid who thought that the lifeguard hated her for the entire rest of the summer if he or she had to tell me not to run around the pool. I much preferred to be the good one.)
And when I did try to tug slightly on the reins to keep my horse with the others, it threw its head back -- a gesture I found mildly terrifying. (Horses were far larger and more powerful in person than I had imagined in all my years of cartoon-viewing and neighing.)
My horse did the same extreme head-tossing when I tried to pet its mane. It seemed to me that my horse disliked human contact, and I can only imagine that the forced contact of having to carry small people on its back six hours a day, five days a week, was an indignity it did not want to bear in its golden years.
I also didn't count on horses being so sweaty. Rather than being on an adventure in the woods with a beautiful and majestic creature, I felt like I was trapped on a large, smelly, overgrown thing that wanted nothing to do with me.
It was one of the longest hours of my life.
After that, I don't think I ever rode a horse again. I gave up any thoughts I might have had about the life equestrian and moved on.
I moved on to bigger dreams, dreams of theater -- musical theater to be exact. Surely, my Broadway fantasies would turn out better than the whole horse thing, even if I was tone deaf ...
From the Archives: Laurel and Annie Travel the World
Well, as we boarded the minibus bound from Pattaya to Bangkok, Anniefound a large knot on her foot. It's probably some disease caused bythe lizard that shared our tropical hell hotel room for a couple ofdays, but she took an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory right afterthe discovery, and we think she's going to make it.
She's a brave soul.
Ithink Annie and I have never been so happy to leave a place as when weleft Bangkok. We were on an Air France flight and thanks to my highschool French teacher always calling Air France "Air Chance," myanxiety level was a little high.
I was about to have my faithin the French restored merely by the presence of personal TV screens atyour seat until we encountered the meanest French stewardess ever. Shewas downright scary, and I'm glad I got to sleep through most of theflight.
I did watch a nice French film as I tried to remaincultured despite the fact that my taste has been seriouslydeteriorating since we left the U.S. This is primarily due to the factthat every English-speaking program shown abroad sucks. Annie and Iactually looked forward to seeing Yes Dear at our hotel in Pattaya. We also loved Sorority Boys . All sad but true.
Of course, my attempts to culture myself went awry when Annie convinced me to watch Kangaroo Jack after the French film. If I come home only interested in CBS and UPN programs, I'm sorry.
Wealso almost missed our connection from Paris to Athens. Something wasup at the French airport. I don't know what kind of alert they were on,but I have never seen people inspect passports with such fervor. I havealso never seen so many people pulled out of line for furtherquestioning. One guy was actually smelling the passports. Our flight toAthens left 40 minutes late because someone was pulled off the planedue to an i.d. problem and the police were called. Perfect flyingconditions for someone who worries about terrorists, etc.
Beforethat, as Annie and I arrived at the terminal for our departure therewas a line of at least 100 people to go through security, and ourflight was already boarding. I had accepted the fact that we would missthis plane until Annie hit me and demanded, "Speak."
Annie hasnever hit me before and this simple act of violence on her part wasquite frightening. It was then that I realized she wanted me to speakFrench to convince the guy close to the front of the line that weshould be able to cut in front of him.
Thank God for my highschool French teacher (I forgive him for the "Air Chance" commentsbecause of this) because I was able to convince him of this and weactually jumped about 90 people in line. I even used the subjunctive.Who knows where that one came from.
After we talked to him, Icould hear him discussing our situation with his wife. He either saidthat my French was shit or that we were in deep shit because of ourflight. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt (and try tosalvage some of my self-esteem) by thinking it's the latter.
Athens is fabulous. I love Greece and don't think I can even say enoughabout how much I love this country. We've been exploring the city,climbed to the top of the Acropolis, and wine is cheaper than water.Tomorrow we're off to Mykonos for 4 days. I can't wait.
There are only 2 things I dislike about Greece thus far:
1. Gatorade tastes like orange Tang.
2.Every staircase and walkway is made of marble. Pretty, but bad forthose who lack coordination like myself. Some of you may be thinking,"Laurel, there's nothing bad about slipping as you climb to the top ofthe Acropolis. You're not in peak physical form, you were probablytired, a little jet-lagged."
The truth is that I slipped notnear the Acropolis, but rather leaving a clothing store and in ourhotel. I went sliding down about 4 steps in our hotel the other day.People in Mykonos are going to wonder who the extremely bruised girl onthe beach is.
My Beef With Robert Redford
A few weeks ago, someone mentioned a new movie with Robert Redford that was coming out.
"Idon't think I'll see that. I just haven't been able to forgive him forThe Way We Were," I said. "I've given it a few years, but it's stilljust too hard for me."
"Uh-huh," she said, giving me the "you'rean odd over-sharer" eye, "well, I'm able to separate actors from thecharacters they portray."
"That must be nice for you," I said enthusiastically. Then, I changed the subject.
I have trouble letting things go (surprise, surprise), and I've been known to hold the occasional grudge. I try to forgive, but I don't always forget.
When you combine this little shortcoming of mine with the fact that I am the perfect audience, trouble can ensue. (The Waitress incident is only a small example.) In fact, there are two actors I can seemingly never forgive -- and not in that Tom Cruise way of "why did I waste two hours of my life on Vanilla Sky" kind of way. I can't forgive what they did on screen.
I don't hold grudges for the actual personal lives of stars - a la Tiger Woods, Jesse James and Brad Pitt -- but when it comes to the characters they play, it's a whole different story. My head may know actors and characters are two separate entities, but my heart just hasn't gotten the message. That being said, here's my problem list:
1. We'll begin with the aforementioned Robert Redford. I adored Sneakers, The Natural and A River Runs Through It. His directorial debut, Ordinary People, was one of my absolute favorites, and then I saw The Way We Were. I watched RR/Hubbell cheat on Katie, I saw him give up on her when things got too hard, and I heard him ask about the daughter he wouldn't raise before running off to the blond he'd replaced his wife with.
The worst line for me in the whole movie? When Hubbell is talking to his best friend J.J. on the sailboat near the end of the film. Hubbell has already slept with Carol Ann, and J.J. admits that Carol Ann has left him and California. Then J.J. says that it doesn't really matter because Carol Ann "was no Katie."
I cried like a baby.
After the first time I saw The Way We Were, my boss asked me what was wrong the following Monday. She said that I didn't seem like my usual self. "Did something happen over the weekend? Is it your family? Are you feeling all right?"
"It's none of that," I said.
She continued to look at me with concern.
"I watched The Way We Were last night."
"Oh," she said, and she nodded.
"Men just leave, don't they?" I said. "It gets hard and they go. It's easier for them to go, isn't it? Why is it so much easier for them to leave?"
I was 22 and a little dramatic, but a movie from 1973 had reduced me to tears in front of a woman 40 years my senior. In short, The Way We Were broke me.
Her response? "It is easier for men to leave," and we talked for 30 minutes about RR, Barbra and romantic relationships.
I can barely watch the film these days. If I do, I start crying duringthe opening credits because I know what's coming, and I can hardlystand it. And no matter what Robert Redford does, I see Hubbell standing in the middle of a home movie theater telling Katie he'll only stay until the baby is born, and I just hate him. It's beyond irrational, but I haven't been able to shake it in eight years. He just should have stayed with her -- despite all the McCarthyism and whatnot.
2. Jeff Daniels also makes my list. Jeff Daniels, I don't care that you are the lovable patriarch in Arachnophobia. Pleasantville, Dumb and Dumber and The Butcher's Wife mean nothing to me. (That last one for different reasons, but still.) For me, you will always be Flap from Terms of Endearment.
And Flap went into his wife/Debra Winger's hospital room as she was dying and told her he wouldn't raise their three children. Flap said he was going to go off with his terrible mistress Janice and abandon their children while the woman he married and bore his kids died of cancer.
Again, my disdain is completely irrational, but it is what it is.
On the other hand, there are two other actors who I can apparently accept in any situation or role.
1. I adore Ted Levine. It does not bother me at all that he hunted Jodie Foster down with night vision goggles in Silence of the Lambs. I don't even care that he uttered one of the creepiest movie lines ever -- "It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again." When he's Captain Leland Stottlemeyer on Monk, he's Capt. Stottlemeyer, and I love him. I love that he fights for Adrian, their often-strained relationship and that, in the end, you know they're best friends. Trying to sew a suit of human skin never even occurs to me when I watch him go a-crime-solving.
I could probably watch the movie and the series back-to-back on USA and not bat an eye.
2. I also like David Boreanaz. When he was Angel, I only wanted him to be with Buffy. But, when I see him now, I don't see Angel. I see Seeley Booth. And Seeley Booth can love Temperance Brennan without my thinking he's cheating on Sarah Michelle Geller. It's all good.
Clearly, there are a lot of X factors here: acting ability, story line, character development, my sanity ...
but, in the long run, there's no telling who will end up on either list.
Hollywood take note, and choose your roles wisely: Laurel Mills is watching.
What No One Tells You
I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.
Work from home, live the dream, right?
I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home.
Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:
1. Weight Gain. I thought I had it bad when I spent eight hours in my ergonomically-designed chair a mere 15 feet from the nearest vending machine. (I don't even want to think about what the consultant made who convinced companies that all chairs should have curved backs for happier workers. Note to said consultant: raises, better benefits and even some modicum of respect from management would have made me far happier than that chair.) These days, I sit on my couch instead, and the Cheeto's-laden BP station is less than a mile away. I refuse to admit my number of visits.
2. House Cleaning. When I first started working from home, I thought I should have a spotless house. After all, I was home all day, so why not use some of my break time or those periods when I was waiting for an e-mail response to throw in a load of laundry or Swiffer the floor? In the first month I worked from home, all of my slip covers had been washed, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Whereas I used to think, "Look how much I can do both professionally and domestically in a day," I now think, "The dirt and dust only come back. Maybe it's time to let them win."
3. Personal Hygiene. When you don't see anyone all day, it's pretty easy to forget about your appearance. If you avoid all of your mirrors, it gets even easier. For awhile, I changed clothes at night just so the SO wouldn't think I'd sat around in the same sweats for 24 hours straight. Lately, not even that seems to be a priority. I realize I could dress up just to do it, but rather than helping, I think I'd just feel even sillier -- like I'd turned into the delusional girl who talked about her high-powered job to anyone who would listen while pushing an empty shopping cart down the street or waiting for the guy to read the water meter.
4. Vices. Now, I'm not one looking to live in a 1984-esque world run by Big Brother, but there is something to be said for social norms. Others' eyes can do a little to keep us in check (and keep us from walking around in our underwear 18 hours a day.) When you work at home, there's no one watching. (I do realize that Judge Judy cannot see me through the TV screen even though I can see her. What a piercing glare that one has!) You can start drinking at 10 a.m. (Not that I do -- yet.) You can pop pills. You can spends hours looking at Internet pornography. For all you know, I could be drinking a dirty martini, smoking a pack of Capris and torturing one of the cats from my neighborhood at this very second. I'm not, but those boundaries can get looser and looser for us work-from-home folks.
5. Paranoia. The combination of A&E network, needing breaks from staring at the computer screen and being home all day on a cul-de-sac seems to have turned me into some sort of one-woman neighborhood watch. As someone who never wanted to be a nosy neighbor, I now know my mailman's route like the back of my hand and call tell you who recycles and who doesn't. I also have a loose theory that the people across the street take in homeless men in poor health, take out life insurance policies on them, and wait for "nature" to take it's course. I could very well be wrong, but if a news crew ever shows up in my life, I don't intend to be the interviewee saying, "They were the quietest people. I new saw this coming. I want to be the one to say, "I knew it all along. They were always weird, and I'm not a bit surprised."
(My goals used to involve publishing; now I want to be the smart-ass on the local news. Something is amiss.)
6. General Sanity. In case all of the previous points didn't lead you to this conclusion naturally, I do think mental health can suffer from working at home. Social interaction does more than keep our vices and hygiene in check. I really think it is good for the soul. No man is an island after all. There are days that the longest conversations I have are with my dog. And after the pets and talking aloud to myself, I end up in the worst of all possible places for interact with humanity ... message boards. LM6947* has a lot to say, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.
Of course, anyone working in an office right now probably has very little sympathy for this list, and I'm sure that if I went back to an office environment, I'd be nostalgic for my sofa and Cold Case Files within about two hours. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side -- whether that alluring other grass is a felted cubicle or desk shoved against the guest room wall.
* Not my real message board name. Although, sadly, I do have one.
Enough Already
We all know I love me some infomercials, but perhaps what you don't know is that my favorite aspect of the infomercial is how they portray life as so hard without the product being advertised -- as if everything sold on television is the equivalent of sliced bread or the light bulb.
My first example? The Snuggie, of course. Watching this now infamous infomercial, you'd think the most difficult task in the world was holding a phone while covered in a blanket.
And we thought the wheel changed the world.
If anyone actually finds it that taxing to grab the phone while covered in a blanket, they have much bigger problems than anything a Snuggie can fix. Every time I see the Snuggie advertised, and the travails of handling a remote control or phone while covered in a blanket are extolled, I can't help but think of the Friends episode when Joey starred on the infomercial touting a product that made it easier to open milk. Because everyone has so much trouble opening milk to begin with.
If you watch the commercial for Aqua Globes, you might think that watering plants is also one of the most painful and difficult tasks on the planet. At one point, the female actress is seen struggling with a dead fern -- like the rotting plant has attacked her or tried to drag her into its water-less and angry clutches.
Is watering plants easy to forget? Sure. Is it a life or death struggle along the lines of a real-life Little Shop of Horrors? Hardly.
Then there's the Perfect Brownie. I'm so glad this product came along because I can't tell you how many times I've worried that my brownies weren't of exactly equal shape and size. And the idea of cutting a pan of brownies with a knife? Who has the time?
No, none of these thoughts go through my head when brownies are on the table. And I can't think of a single person I know who struggles to bake brownies from a box. Unless they invent a product that keeps you from shoving half the pan down your throat before the goods cool, I'm not interested. (Wait -- I think the mysterious product I think of is called self-control, and if it were available, I wouldn't need half the diet and exercise products I have bought off the television. Oh well.)
The Big City Slider Station? Because when you're making hamburger patties it's that hard to make some of them smaller? Again, I am confused.
While I know all products have to say that they make your life easier, watching infomercials, you'd think these days of indoor plumbing, constant Internet access and medical advancement were pure hell. (After all, I'm kind of on the lazy side, and if I think you're exaggerating, you've really missed the mark.)
Walking hundreds of feet uphill in the snow? Hey, I'll tell my grandkids about what it was like when I had to water my own plants and dig for my cell phone in my purse. I can almost hear their groans now ...
On The Air
I've often considered that if I ever wanted to be on reality television, there isn't really a good fit for me. (After all, doesn't temporary fame have some kind of appeal? If I could get paid to attend just one party -- a la Stephanie Pratt and Khloe Kardashian -- I could redo my entire kitchen.) Maybe there's no good fit because I'm not insane, but we'll leave that off the table for now.
I'm not an athlete or in top physical condition, so Survivor and The Amazing Race are out. I've aged out of anything on MTV. I cannot sing or dance, so goodbye American Idol. Dating is of no interest to me right now which eliminates The Bachelor, Blind Date and anything involving a millionaire, fake millionaire or getting to know one another in complete darkness. I'm not a real housewife of anywhere, and I'm unwilling to exploit my womb. (That last one might be a "for now." We'll see how this recession goes.) I also have no role in the wedding industry at the moment, which would take care of most of the programming on WE and the Style network.
(While on the subject of womb exploitation, I'd like to go ahead and nominate my two favorite tabloid stories of the year. Sure, this could be a little premature, but I'm feeling optimistic today. My runner-up for favorite tabloid story of the year is something I call, "Douche Does Yoga." Why this even made "the news" is completely beyond me. And this guy has more money than me. A crime against humanity? I think it's possible. My absolute favorite tabloid story of the year is "How I Lose 145 Pounds" courtesy of Nadya Sudelman, a.k.a. the Octomom. Yeah, I don't think dropping a litter out of one's uterus is an option for most women struggling with their weight, but thanks for the thought, Nadya.)
Long sidebar aside, I've decided that there needs to be a reality show where people compete to find the most ridiculous purchases while bargain shopping. (I know! I also get excited just thinking about the hilarity and Hawkins that would ensue.) There would be a budget, of course. And then, with an appropriate time limit, competitors could visit stores like the Dollar General and Fred's to seek out the most inane products for sale. Do you spend all of your money on one big purchase or buy multiple items hoping to increase your odds of winning? I just don't know!
You could have a panel of judges or incorporate America's votes. Either way, I'm sure it'd be some compelling television.
In light of my new idea, this blog entry is also an audition. I bring you my most oddball find from discount shopping -- a bleach kit from Tuesday Morning. Now, while the bleach itself might not be oddball, I think it's the packaging on this one that says it all. I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "These old jeans of mine just aren't cutting it. I wonder what's missing ... Wait, I've got it! If I could just bleach the butt area, I'd have a whole new look and the perfect accessory to set me apart when I go to happy hour in the lounge of the airport Marriott. Thank you Denim Details!"
Fame and fortune, here I come.
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.
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.
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.
Extreme Wives
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
Bachelor #1 tries to break the ice by giving women bags of Jelly Belly jelly beans with Christian cartoons attached. (???) He also has a moustache. Enough said.
Bachelor #2 is nearly 60 and talks a lot about how American women don't know how to be wives anymore. He also has a propensity for walking around without a shirt on, and I think it's possible that a small former-Soviet republic could have been swallowed up by his overhanging gut. (Hey, I know it takes all kinds, but leaving the shirt on would be a nice start.) Has anyone heard from Moldova lately?
Bachelor #3 has an assault conviction. He says it's because the "young girl" he was seeing had a father that threatened him and he had to defend himself. All I know is that I'd be pretty pissed if someone picked up my kid from her girl scout meeting without my permission, too. (Actual details of that last sentence entirely fabricated by me, but I wouldnt' put it past Bachelor #3.) He also cries on a date and tries to hit on Dawn at one point. I think Bachelor #3 should be in prison somewhere. If you are a law enforcement official, please watch Extreme Wife and look through your cold cases.
Despite the fact that Bachelor #3 made my skin crawl, it was Bachelor #4 who I really worried about being allowed in the general population. In summation:
1. Bachelor #4 says that women date him because he has a cool car -- a Ford Mustang. He also brags that his license plate is "BadBoy3" because he's "a bad boy."
2. B4 wants a younger woman because he's "just a kid at heart." His favorite shows are Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. (Cough, ild-chay, cough, olseter-may.)
3. B4 buys his cologne at the Dollar Tree. Dawn nearly gags entering his hotel room for a pre-social interview.
4. B4 describes himself as "sexually aggressive." He likes to pull hair.
5. In addition to the Mustang, B4 drives a van with the back seats removed to make space for a mattress. He says his friends always want to know how he "gets such young girls." (Between this show and Dateline's To Catch a Predator, I'm wondering how many men use "young girls" as a synonym for "women not yet of the age of legal consent." With B4, I imagine "getting young girls" has a lot to do with the Internet, low self-esteem and images he stole out of store-bought picture frames.)
When Dawn tried to follow up with the lovely men, Bachelor #4's phone number had been diconnected. I can only hope he went to jail.
I've left one Bachelor out because with his seeming respect for women and insistence that he wanted to meet someone his age, in comparison, I was starting to think he was a real catch -- despite the all-white three-piece suit.
Considering my fascination with Mormons (only the Fundamentalist ones), I can't wait for the next episode of Extreme Wife. It may be the most exciting thing that happens to me all week ...
Premature Aging?
Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)
http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ
And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer.
While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.
I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).
If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked.
So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?
What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?
Oh dear ...
Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?
The Closest I Will Ever Get to Jon Hamm
And the closest I'll ever get is having my '60s avatar courtesy of MadMenYourself.com next to the standard backdrop John Hamm avatar.
Sigh.
But, considering what stalking laws are these days, it's probably for the best.
Shame on You
As someone with an anxiety disorder, I tend to be more sensitive to media and news than others. Because of this, I keep an eye out for anything I might find panic-inducing. Even without my political leanings, I wouldn't watch Fox News because they seem to classify everything as "breaking news" and just the words "breaking news" kick start my brain into a downhill spiral of worry about what happened, where it was, whether or not anyone I care about might have been hurt, what's going to happen, how strong the foundation of my house is, who the known nuclear powers are, and on and on until I'm hunkered in the bath tub with my dog and a bag of Oreos preparing for the end of the world.
You can just imagine how exhausting that would be as a daily routine. (Which is why I didn't get much done in 2002, but that's another story for another day.)
I actually try to avoid most 24-hour news channels (Internet news is much better for me), scary movies and stories about single women killed in their beds by strangers because of the anxious thoughts that ensue.
So you can probably see why I'm not so happy when people sneak the scary into commercials. I can't plan for ads -- they don't put those on the digital cable menu. (Also, I work from home during the day with the Style and Lifetime networks on. Why I should ever see a commercial for anything other than Midol, diapers and selling my gold for cash, I do not know.) And If I had to choose the biggest offender in this scary ad category, it would be Brinks Home Security Systems.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K8DKH7tCRU&hl=en&fs=1&&w=425&h=344]
Brinks doesn't just portray break-ins on TV. Apparently, in their brilliant marketing strategy, they've decided that the best way to sell security systems is to scare the be-jesus out of people. They only portray the most violent and nightmarish of break-ins. If someone comes into your house, it won't be a drug addict picking up jewelry while you're at work. No, if someone comes into your house, it's going to be a huge thug that attacks (by throwing open the front door and glaring, by the way) the moment you leave your teenage daughter home alone, when your wife and small children are home in the middle of the day or as soon as you dare to put on headphones for a run on the treadmill.
Laurel vs. Bear
I've heard about the bizarre antics and survival tips on Man vs. Wild for months, but it wasn't until this past weekend that I was able to witness the strange adventure for myself. (For those of you who don't know, Man vs. Wild revolves around a man -- hence the "man" part of the title -- who fends for himself and makes do with the worst of nature supposedly under the auspices of demonstrating how to stay alive when desperately lost in the outdoors -- i.e., "wild.")
I must say that I cannot imagine a man I have less in common with than Man vs. Wild host Bear Grylls. (Hey, even Bobby Knight and I both dislike Duke University.)
1. Bear enjoys dropping himself in the middle of nowhere. I can't imagine why I would ever need or want to be outside a safe radius and/or walking distance of a Krystal's or vending machine stocked to the gills with Diet Coke.
2.Bear eats stinging ants. Apart from the fact that ants hardly seem worth consuming because of their size (bird or boar, anyone?), why would you need to eat the stinging ants when I'm sure most jungles, deserts and forests are full of ants of all shapes and sizes? You could even branch out from ants to other bugs. If for some reason a baffling wilderness sprung up between me and the nearest Walgreen's, I'd much prefer making do on a meal of the debit card receipts in my wallet or even dirt for God's sake.
3. If Bear didn't have enough water, he'd run into the brush full of deadly snakes and try to find the one non-poisonous leafy plant in a wall of terribly lethal shrubs. I'd take the dehydration.
4. Bear uses his pants as a flotation device, a pillow and a means of paddling a boat. The only use my pants serve -- apart from public decency -- is to remind me of how I've had far too many a meal at the Krystal's lately.
5. Bear chooses all of this despite being a television star with access to modern conveniences and a camera crew. If I had my own TV show, there'd be mimosas and french fries as refreshments -- not bear poop and my own urine.
(I also can't help but think that the Man vs. Wild cameramen can't love their jobs. In addition to having to leap over deadly creatures and stay out under the hot sun with a crazy man eating bat vomit, when Bear takes off his pants, he's never wearing anything underneath.
I imagine the internal monologue goes something like this: "Another day, another dollar, another moment of my life lost to the glare of Bear's exposed man parts.")
In short, I just can't relate to Man vs. Wild, and I think my first episode will probably be my last. It's back to Lifetime and shows where women talk to dead people for this gal.
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.
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 ...
Channel Surfing
And, that's when I fell in love.
I probably should have seen this coming. Most anyone who reads this blog is aware of the fact that I tend to regard time travel and wrong-righting very highly. But, almost because of how highly I regard "Quantum Leap" and it's storytelling wonder, I didn't think I would ever find another venue where these same premises would intrigue me.
For those needing a metaphorical perspective, if I were dating my television (which some Saturday nights, it feels like I am), "Quantum Leap" would be the ex on a pedestal that no one else could live up to or "the one that got away."
So, to say the least, I was taken by surprise when "Journeyman" found its way into my heart so quickly. I was so enamored, in fact, that it wasn't until this morning that the fear set in.
You see, I have loved like this before. Oh, "Class of '96" and a young Kari Wuhrer, how I tuned in every week. "Cupid" - where you could find Jeremy Piven before his days on "Entourage" - was a real treat. Even "Reunion," the show that was more bad-good than good, held my attention with it's ridiculous flashbacks and drawn out murder mystery. That's not even mentioning every attempt at a sitcom Bonnie Hunt has ever made, "Freaks and Geeks," "Jack & Jill" and "That's my Bush." I loved them all.
Then, the networks took them all away. Sure, you can say that it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but I still don't know which of the five friends killed Samantha Carlton on "Reunion" and that irks me. I even promised myself that I wouldn't do this again - that I couldn't jump in to the fall schedule so quickly without considering the potential heartbreak.
After all, I don't know if "Journeyman" and I will last. And, even if we start off strong, who knows is we can make it through a whole season or how many years we'll have? One? Three? Dare I dream - five?
I suppose, awful pun intended, that I'll be taking a quantum leap of faith on "Journeyman" this year. (Oh, it's terrible, isn't it? For some reason, when the opportunity for a pun is there, I just have to take it. It's like kleptomania or car keys if you're a drunk Lindsay Lohan.)
Please wish us the best, and, if you have the time, give the show a shot. My love alone won't be enough to keep it on the air.
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.)