Downtown Doggie: Part 2
Laurel Returns to her Daily Blogging
I am again apologizing for my lack of blogs, but today is the glorious day that all ends.
You see, yesterday afternoon, after a good half hour running through the rain, a train, a bus, another walk in the rain, almost crying in front of the UPS guy because he wanted to see a picture id with my local address which I obviously don’t have because I just moved and then his decision to take pity on me, another walk, twenty minutes waiting in the rain for a packed bus, standing literally in the middle of a homeless man arguing with the bus driver, a train, and another rainy walk to my apartment - I was reunited with my laptop.
And, it’s been all that I dreamed it would be.
I no longer have to worry that I will deplete my bank account solely based on the internet charges from Kinko’s. My I-Tunes and I are back together, and there’s all the Kelly Clarkson a girl could ever want. I even have Free Cell to challenge my brain and keep me company during my bouts of insomnia.
Yes, it has been a glorious day indeed.
Big News
It's wonderful and glorious and marvelous and overwhelming all at the same time...and it's not the city of Chicago.You see, ladies and gentleman, for the first time in over a year and a half, (and I feel like I must knock on wood, spin around three times while naming the 12 apostles, and possibly collect a virgin pigeon's blood as I say this so as not to spoil my good fortune), I have cable.That's right - CABLE TELEVISION!Now, I understand that a lot of people have moved to digital cable, TiVo, and video ipods in the last few years, so I might seem a bit behind. But, truly, for me, this is incredible."Golden Girls" I missed you so. When Rose wrote her letter about nuclear war to Gorbachev this morning and the Russian leader wants to visit her because he assumes she is a child and not a senior citizen, I was ecstatic. When I had a bout of insomnia yesterday and woke up at 6 a.m., I had my choice of "Angel," VH1, and "Designing Women" to choose from. That's right - I was not forced to watch a local news morning show or interviews with "the amateur chef of the week" (which usually makes the frustration of my insomnia MUCH worse, rather than better). And, last night I watched "Dicky Roberts...Child Star" after 10 p.m. when I usually sit through late night talk shows. (As for the movie choice, we all know that when you find a movie on cable with recognizable stars, it's fair game. Paying to rent or see in the theater is when taste is really called into question. And, speaking of taste, we already know I have none.)But, I also learned that so much has changed since I had cable. To go from watching 4 channels to having over 70 is a bit much. People have reality shows, and I have no idea who they are?!?!For instance, I tuned into something on BET. (Already out of my element as the whitest person in America. Monday night some red-headed college kid leaned out of his cab to yell "Hey Lady, holler at your man!" to me. I, understandably, was confused and not entirely sure of what he was saying. Would "get out of my grill" have been an appropriate response? What about "fo' shizznot"? I just don't know. It was odd.) Well, it seemed to be a reality show wherein someone was going to get a lamborghini, but I had no idea who the people were, and not even their identifying labels helped me out. DMX, I recognized. Keyshia Cole, I did not.Then, I flipped around some more and learned that there are way too many shows about struggling women. "Starting Over" is too much. Certainly anything after that goes too far. I thought the canceling of "Tuesday Night Book Club" recognized this trend, but cable seems to offer a wealth of others.And, Lifetime. My dear, sweet Lifetime. Its next movies are about a teenage girl accused of being a witch and female road rage. I like my murder plots and my cheating, abusive spouses. All of these new themes seem just a bit "outside the box." And, whoever thought that Lifetime would be "outside the box"?However, I did learn that I like "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." There's something about 2 spoiled kids buying crack rock in a Range Rover so that they can get on welfare as a non-working vacation before he takes the MCAT and she tries acting in New York that gets me every time.I hope everyone has a great weekend! I'm going to try and leave my apartment even with these fantastic new developments. I can't even begin to imagine what else is out there...
Kentucky - What Gives?
Now, I knew that Kentucky was famous for bourbon. But, I guess I didn't really consider that alcohol has one very obvious corollary until I drove through the state on Saturday.And, of course, that natural partner of booze is pornography. Or, at least, that is what I was led to believe as my father and I drove past the 3rd Adult Superstore in an hour.Here are some of the questions I have:1. Wal-Mart as a superstore makes sense to me. After all, they have to run the gamut from automotive supplies to personal hygiene products to home decor. Does pornography really require a superstore? I mean, come on - that's just a whole lot of porn. If anyone makes it through that superstore or is actually on the "new releases" postcard update, I think it's time to call in the addiction experts. Also, even if one adult superstore is necessary to satisfy every perversion/fetish in the book, why are there three is such a small geographic area? This leads me to my next question...2. Is it the competitive pricing that keeps three stores open? (And, if so, does anyone price check their porn? Isn't pulling "Buffy the Vampire Layer" off the shelf enough of an embarrassment the first time? Would anyone really have it scanned, decide that was too much, and hop in the car to drive to another adult shop for the same drill? Would this even be feasible as a scenario? And, secondly, who has that much time?) Was there a fallout between the owner and a former employee who decided to strike out on his own? Are there porn wars over content and quality?3. These porn stores were open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. How many bodies does the guy who works the graveyard shift at the 24 hour adult superstore have buried in the backyard of the home I'm sure he still shares with his mom at 40? Does he love or hate his job? (For the sake of all that is good and decent in the world, I sure hope he doesn't love the gig.) Is there such a thing as a "porn emergency" that would require this kind of vigilance and constant access? Who has to have porn at 4 a.m.? (Again, if the answer to the first question is "yes" and the answer to the second is, "Well, there was this one time in college...", I don't want to know about it. Those are the kinds of secrets that sometimes even death beds aren't the right time for.) 4. The porn store is the only attraction at the exit. If you're pulling off, everybody knows what it's for. Returning to the issue of shame, don't most people want to buy their porn in private? Do people really not care that everyone knows where they're going, even if those people are strangers? (Personally, sometimes I care more about the strangers than the opinions of friends and family.) Do I need to take a lesson (and hopefully this is the only lesson that can be garnered from the adult superstore patrons) in self-esteem and living my own life from this?5. And finally, how many divorces have been caused by wives out for a weekend away with the girls and driving by the adult superstore on their way back into town? After all, the parking lot is RIGHT ON THE HIGHWAY!?!? There's no missing that one. You would think that they would have at least built the lot on the back of the store, or tried for a garage effect. How many marital fist fights have our porn workers had to break up over the years?Oh well, other than Dinosaur World, I have to say that porn superstores were the most interesting thing to come out of the drive. (I typed "exciting" at first, but all of this talk of porn made me second think my word choice. I don't want those of you with dirty minds getting ahead of themselves.)Anyway, thanks for reading. Tomorrow: Alison of the dolphin show at Shedd Aquarium and why we will never be friends.
Happy 4th!
I apologize for not posting as much this week, but I've been swamped.As of tomorrow (Friday, July 1), I will be in Chicago, Illinois for the rest of the summer. So, with packing and getting ready for my move, life has been a little hectic.I hope everyone enjoys their weekend, and please come back next week as Cassidy and I relay all of our tales about getting adjusted to the big city!
Laurel as Stage Mom
Because I am somewhat unhealthily obsessed with my dog (hey- you try being single and living alone without having some attachment issues), I decided to enter Cassidy in Birmingham Magazine's cutest pet contest.Now, there were 2 options for entry. One was to send in a picture with a $25 check that would be donated to Hand-in-Paw, a nonprofit that conducts therapy using animals. The other was to actually go to Vulcan Park, have your dog's picture taken, and, for a slightly larger fee of $35, have a copy of your dog's picture superimposed on the cover of Birmingham Magazine in addition to the Hand-in-Paw donation, win or lose.Obviously, I chose the latter.So, I took Cassidy to the park on the designated Saturday morning and waited in line to have her picture taken.When it was our turn, Cassidy had to sit on an elevated platform with a sheet thrown over it. And, since, the sheet tended to slide around, Cassidy wasn't too pleased. (Think when your dog tries to get its bearings in a moving car - maybe "not pleased" isn't the right phrase, but uncomfortable/nervous is.) It wasn't the easiest to get a picture, but when the woman asked if the photographer was done, he replied, "Oh yeah. I've got a couple of cute ones."Notice he said "a couple," which implies not one but two decent shots. He also specifically said that they were "cute."Since the printer broke during the course of the morning, I also had to wait 2 weeks to receive my picture in the mail. And, as sick as it may be, I could not wait to get my faux Birmingham Magazine cover.A couple of days after the 2 weeks had passed, I got a call from Birmingham Magazine asking me to confirm my address for shipping, which I did.And, while I was on the line with the woman from Birmingham magazine, she specifically said, "I have your photo right here and it's cute."Again, I am promised that my picture is "cute."However, when it arrives, it is the farthest thing from "cute" that I can imagine. My dogs eyes are half open, her neck is all scrunched up so that she actually looks overweight (for those of you who don't know, next to a greyhound, my dog is about the most lithe creature you'll ever see), and her leash can be seen and cuts across her body in a way that makes her look pained.In addition to all this, it's a 4x6 photo. Now, I don't know about you, but when I pay for a mock-up magazine cover, I expect the picture to be closer to the size of an actual magazine. I expect an 8x10 for the extra dough I shelled out.Also, I wouldn't be nearly as bothered by the quality of the photo if I hadn't been told repeatedly that it was a "cute" picture. All I'm saying is don't make promises you can't deliver on. Or, as a friend of mine used to say, don't piss into the wind and tell me it's raining. If you say "cute," you better mean "cute." And, there is no way, despite whatever varying degrees of subjectivity exist in human nature that my dog picture can be considered cute.I will post the picture shortly for confirmation. After all, there's nothing else I can do with it. And, I'm sure if Cassidy could talk, she would ask me to cut her out of the photo as any self-respecting woman knows to destroy less than flattering images of themselves.(P.S. My comments are in no way meant to reflect any negative feelings towards Hand-in-Paw; I think they're great. I simply prefer more honesty from those photographing my dog.)
My Life Without Cable
Sunday night, as I was desperately trying to sleep and my two doses of tylenol pm were not working, I stumbled upon the 2 a.m. movie on the WB. Now, earlier in the day, I had watched some rather strange piece of trying to be deep/existential filmmaking with a bit of mysticism thrown in called "Interstate 60" on the WB, and, while I was not overcome with respect for James Marsden and his leading role choices, I was at least entertained. (Also, as a plus, I realized where the pink power ranger has been since leaving "Felicity" following the traumatic repercussions of her date rape at the hands of that dorky, always had a crush on Angela guy from "My So Called Life." And, while I am in no way commenting on date rape, I have to say I was more than happy to see her go as I was always a Ben and Felicity fan, and pink power ranger just got in the way. Plus, she never figured out how to do her hair. It bugged me. She makes a brief appearance in "Interstate 60," but she still hasn't figured out how to do her hair, so I was, yet again, perturbed by her on-screen presence.)Anyway, "The Killers Within" began with what looked like early 80s scenery - all grainy and whatnot - and featured a long truck ride with only some news announcement from the radio as background noise. (Oh my, thanks to the wonder that is the internet movie database, I just learned that "The Killers Within" was actually made in 1995, which makes me even more sure of its "B" movie status. They must have bought their equipment at Big Lots to achieve said shoddy film effects.*)I was not impressed.Then, as the opening credits rolled, I noticed that the movie was written and directed by the same person, Paul Leder. If you ask me, this is never a good sign. If the guy who wrote and directed the movie didn't take the pop culture world by storm (a la Quentin Tarrantino and Wes Anderson), it's probably not good. And, again, from imdb I learn that Paul Leder's other projects include "I Dismember Mama" and "My Friends Need Killing."The pieces are coming together.So, I was all set to give up on said movie and put my DVD's of "House" in, when the scene switched from guy in car to half-naked couple in swimming pool. (Now, I really don't care about the half-naked part. Or the pool for that matter. I just wanted to know where these people came from.) And, then, the camera zooms out from the couple in the pool to show that they are being watched from a window by a creepy old man. Then we go inside the room of creepy old man where he is in a wheelchair, doing curls with one arm, and being served a meal by some manservant of sorts.What the hell could this all mean?!?!I mean, seriously, how in the world do you bring all of these elements together? There is nothing rational or seemingly related about a swimming couple and the handicapped voyeur with a man maid.And, that's when they hooked me.These kinds of questions meant that I could not, as planned, turn to "House." Nor could I even relax and try to let the tylenol pm kick in. Instead, I had to watch "The Killers Within." Maybe wheelchair guy was the wealthy grandfather to the couple in the pool? Maybe he was gay and forced his manservant to perform humiliating tasks like sponge bathing him while singing "Row Row Row Your Boat" in rounds, but manservant had to do it because his family that couldn't immigrate from Sweden had to have the money to keep their roots from showing in the all blond nation? And, still, none of this would explain the buy in the truck or his missing brother who seemed to have a job at a newspaper where his boss was a woman with freakishly light eyes that made her look even more devilish than her seeming nonchalance about the brother's two week absence from his job made her seem.These kinds of questions are probably what wore me out to the point where I fell asleep before finishing the movie.So, on the plus side, sleep. On the minus side, no closure.Which is actually where my asterisk from earlier comes in - there are few internet sites I love more than the internet movie database. I love that I can check out any actor or film no matter how obscure. For a Lifetime lover like me, it just answers so many questions.And, while nothing can replace actually seeing the end of "The Killers Within," thanks to imdb, I know that old man in the wheelchair is actually a presumed dead war criminal who had the brother of the guy in the truck killed with the help of the people in the pool.Thank you imdb. I always rest a little easier because of you.
The Trials and Tribulations of Being Me
As I was running my usual errands (you know - the Dollar General, prescription refills, reading all of the tabloids at Books-A-Million but not buying them, etc.), one of my worst nightmares happened - I became stuck in a dress at Forever 21.Of course, being in Forever 21 is horrific enough for me since I feel quite old shopping there and usually, much like my days as an actual teenager, think the current teenagers who are meant to wear the clothes are judging everything I pull off the rack.Anyway, I guess I was being fairly optimistic about my size because I chose a dress somewhat snugger than I imagined. So, even though I got it safely onto my body, I couldn’t get it off.(Truthfully, this really is a panic inducing situation for me. Of course, my anxiety level is never good, but something about having my face surrounded by cotton really brings out the claustrophobic in me.)To make matters worse, when this occurs (because like I alluded to before, it happens much more often than it should), I can never figure out whether I should keep trying to get the dress over my head, or if I should pull the dress back down and try to step out of it instead.But, I was never good at math or spacial visualization, so of course I can’t figure out whether my hips are larger than my shoulders and vice versa and which really would be the best way to escape my synthetic fabric hell.And, since by now, the panic will have escalated to sweaty palms and difficulty breathing, I usually can’t get a good grip on the dress and don’t make productive pulls to begin with.Then, I’ll think I hear the fabric ripping (probably because it is), and I’ll begin to resign myself to a life inside the dress - as if I can permanently wear an extra large scarf around my shoulders and not be noticed rather than having to call for help in what I consider to be a very embarrassing / weight questioning situation.When my sister is around, I just yell for her to come and give a good yank. But, unfortunately, she’s in New Orleans and it would take a bit too long for her to make the trip and rescue me in the dressing room.Eventually, I freed myself (and just decided not to check for loose seams), but, unfortunately, it wasn’t before contemplating the thought no woman wants to have:"Do you think I’ll have to pay for this dress after a sixteen year old sales clerk cuts me out of it?"Because, after all, the only thing worse than being cut out of clothing would be laying down the (full price!) bucks for it afterwards.
No Wonder it Takes me so Long to get Ready in the Morning
There used to be a time when I would tell people, all breezy and whatnot, "I am so not superstitious. All of that stuff is just silly."That time was long ago.And, while I might not necessarily be a crazy superstitious person, I do stick to a few tried and true rules:1. I always knock on wood should I say something where it seems like God might smite me in the next few moments for such grandeur or presumption, i.e. "I've never been in a bad car wreck" or "Gee, having a knee injury must suck. I'm so glad I have such good health." Of course, I also knock on wood for the less dire pronouncements that still involve my seeming much too sure of myself (after all, what are expectations for if not to be dashed in horrific and painful ways?), i.e. "He promised he would call, and he is such a nice guy."(Sidebar: Apparently I'm having way too much fun with the italics option today. Oh well, I guess we'll blame this zaniness of mine on the fact that it's Friday.)2. If I spill salt, I throw it over my left shoulder. Sure, this one was difficult to keep up with when I waited tables and regularly had to refill the salt and pepper shakers, (I got very little hand/eye coordination people), but I kept at it to avoid the aforementioned smiting by God or some other you-must-maintain-the carefully-balanced-order-of-the-universe-induced-catastrophe. After all, if spilling salt doesn't destin you to boils or an apartment break-in, I don't know what does.3. Black cats...Creepy...Not for me...And, in my adherence to old wives' tales and superstition, I believe that I have good and bad luck outfits.Now, most people have a lucky article of clothing - a shirt you always wear on job interviews, "good date" underwear, etc. I have a t-shirt that virtually guarantees I will meet a cute boy. (And, shockingly, it is an actual t-shirt and not some sort of backless, held together with safety pins, hope, and a willingness to forego my integrity, clubbing shirt that you would expect to attract attention.) I also have a shirt that pretty much insures that I will be dumped in some highly public way or catch a boyfriend cheating. (The simple solution here would be to throw the cursed shirt away, and yet, I still think it's really cute. I suppose I've screwed myself over on this one, but, what can I say? Hope springs eternal. In truth, that phrase is the only explanation for why I continue to date despite the past four years of my romantic life.)Anyway, my point is this: I'm wearing a bad luck dress today.I have only worn this dress once, and I got red wine all over it (a fairly common occurrence) and got into a huge emotional fight with the guy that I was dating at the time that led to me crying and being unable to sleep for two days afterwards. (Gee, I wonder which part of that scenario led me to deem this dress "bad luck"?)In short, not good.But, when I saw it in the closet this morning, I thought, "Why not? It's been a year. I'll throw caution to the wind." (Yes, sadly, for my vigilant self, wearing a "bad luck" article of clothing is akin to living life on the edge. Not so much a risk taker here.) And, since I'm not dating anyone right now, it seemed safe to bring it out. After all, the potential for romantic disasters seems low.But, then, of course, because I am a superstitious person (and mildly not well), I realized that acknowledging the bad luck dress and then daring to think that all would be well was just asking for trouble. After all, doesn't every difficult day begin with "This won't take too long..." and every disaster start with "Could this day be more perfect?" or "There's no reason to worry. This is the safest ship in the world..."?So, I'm pretty tense today. I ask you all to send positive energy my way.And, for the second time this week, to forgive my severe neuroses.
My Two Cents for the Day
The other day, I got into a heated discussion about, what else, but one Miss Julia Stiles.Naturally, I was contending that Julia Stiles is, unfortunately, one of the worst actresses ever. (This obviously excludes her one brief shining moment in "Ten Things I Hate About You." She was good as Kat Stratford. She is only good as Kat Stratford.)I mean, come on, did anyone see the "I want 2 hours of my life back" that was "Down to You"? Or "Save the Last Dance"? Even "The Bourne Identity" and "The Bourne Supremacy," which are phenomenal movies, show their weak points when Julia Stiles is in the scene. In the final, climactic scene of "The Bourne Identity," Julia Stiles detracts from the action by bumping into NOTHING! I may not be trained in the theater, but I'm pretty sure that avoiding props and other physical items on the set is pretty standard. I would particularly imagine that you're only supposed to bump into nonexistent props when you're a mime.Julia stiles, as far as I know, you are no mime. (Which is actually something I'm adding to your "pro" list.)Anyway, the heated part of the discussion arose when someone at the table said they had run into Julia Stiles in a restaurant, and she was very nice.I was more than willing to concede that Julia Stiles is nice. But, I also added that "nice" does not make you a good actress. After all, I can be nice, but that doesn't make me a good engineer. Would my being "nice" give you the courage to drive over a bridge I built?I certainly hope not.And, "nice" doesn't mean that I can necessarily stand to pay eight dollars to see a Julia Stiles movie in the theater.(In truth, this last fact is tearing me apart inside. I love the original "Omen" with Gregory Peck and would love to see the remake. There is nothing like a nanny who is literally the bride of Satan and excavated goat carcasses to keep me entertained.)But, like they say: Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me. I have made the Julia Stiles movie mistake one too many times.Thank God, I had the courage to miss "The Prince & Me." At least I can hold onto some of my dignity there.
My Life as a Couch Potato
I watched a full episode of "Two and a Half Men" on Monday night, and I can't say that I'm not more than a little bit ashamed.However, I truly must confess that watching the program alone isn't what did this to me. The problem is that, and this isn't easy to say - I actually laughed out loud while I was watching it.I found myself thinking of Charlie Sheen as an "adorable scamp." (Damn those marketers and "spin" masters.) Despite his character's gross womanizing (where did they come up with that surprising characterization?), I found most of his antics quite amusing rather than despicable. I like the way he "tells it like it is." I loved his unapologetic behavior.And, then I started to wonder if Charlie Sheen really might be one of the smartest/most charming people that has ever lived.I mean, seriously, not many people can bounce back from public drug addiction and hooker obsessions. After all, this is the guy who, when asked why he paid women to have sex with him when he was a huge star, answered, "I don't pay them to come. I pay them to leave afterwards."He chain smokes and gambles. And, yes, he is attractive, but not more so than a lot of other people in Hollywood.There should not be anything redeeming about Charlie or his television persona.And, yet, I still like him. (This probably explains some of my relationship problems, but let's leave that out of the conversation for now. My attraction to Tom Skerritt leaves me with enough of an issue to work through on a daily basis.)Really, I think if Charlie Sheen decided to run for political office we'd all be in trouble. It would be like raising Clinton to some exponential power, and I don't think the world is ready for that...P.S. I also would like to mention that despite Charlie's raucous behavior, I still thought Denise Richards was marrying up when she got him. (Eyebrows and roots really aren't that hard to manage, Denise. After all, you were on a quickly cancelled UPN program. You married a man who spent thousands of dollars on prostitutes. You obviously have standards.) And, I'm permanently placing myself on Team Locklear.
Reason #457 I Must Have Children with Someone Far Less Emotional than Me
This morning, I woke up way too early and couldn't fall back asleep. (6:30 a.m., which is long before my normal getting out of bed time of 10.) And, being restless and angry that I couldn't sleep, I naturally grabbed some water and put "Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo" into the VCR.I was enjoying Rob Schneider's antics and giving my dog a belly rub, when I discovered something very upsetting - Cassidy had a tick.And, this was a rather large, gross, hanging off her skin like a bizarre appendage tick. I was not pleased.First, I found some matches. Then I lit one, blew it out, and touched the tip of the match to the tick because I thought that was supposed to make ticks withdraw their legs. (My mom always used cigarette butts for the same effect when I was a child. I think this is common, but I have a feeling some people reading this are horrified.) Well, that didn't work. And, that's when I started to freak out thinking the tick was way too large and had already begun spreading deadly blood diseases to my baby.So, first I called my vet's office. The actual vet wasn't in, which is probably good since I most likely would have driven over to the office in my pajamas and demanded he remove the tick from my dog's leg thus forever cementing his image of me as the truly crazy girl who doesn't get that dogs get ticks all the time because they are in fact a) usually outside and b) animals.Then, I called my mother. But, she wasn't answering the phone, so I had to call my dad.Now, my father is actually in Decatur this week trying a case. Therefore, I not only called him at the quite unusual hour of 7:15 a.m. (when I am not usually even conscious yet), but I also called him while he was out of town.Needless to say, this rattled him.However, when I explained that this was just a tick incident, he calmly informed my that I just needed some tweezers and a steady grip, and all would be fine. (Of course, I quizzed him about possible blood disorders/infections, but he again assured me that all was fine since most dogs get ticks every once in awhile.)Getting Cassidy's tick was not the easiest thing in the world - especially since I have a mild back injury and had to wrangle Cassidy to the floor and then hold up one of her legs, since the tick was actually where the armpit would be on a person, grab the little sucker and pull hard. ( I mean hard. That tick was in it.) But, I did it.It's just that I realized for the umpteenth time, I will have to have children with an incredibly rational person. My vet already thinks I'm a little weird because I can't look at the needle when he gives Cassidy a shot. ( I really, really don't like needles.) And, I have to have nurses hold my hand when they prick my finger at the lady doctor's office.I'm not sure it sets a good example for children when you're more afraid to go to the doctor's office than they are. And, none of this is even accounting for my other foibles - like being unable to sleep unless there is a clear path from my bed to the doorway (in case of a house fire) or preferring to never, ever answer the door when I'm at home unless I'm expecting someone (in case of homicidal maniacs disguised as the UPS man - again, thank you Lifetime and Dateline NBC).Basically, it's going to take some strong genes to offset these neuroses and their potential inheritence.Although, then again, it's probably my own special kind of neurosis to worry about my future children when it's been awhile since anyone even asked me to dinner...Oh well, it's been much too exhausting a day to go there now.
And the Beat Goes on...
Have you ever thought to yourself, "What is the most appropriate time for trance music?"Is it:a) as I'm getting out of bed in the morning as a wake-me-up?b) in the middle of the afternoon as I prepare for a European style siesta?c) while I'm making dinner and getting ready to unwind at the end of the day?d) Or, what about just before midnight, because nothing says "let's relax before getting into bed" like a good, bass-exploiting, wall-reverberating trance beat?If you're my downstairs neighbors, the answer is the very tricky, and unlisted, e) all of the above.I have officially renamed my downstairs neighbors as the Dynamic Duo. Some of you might wonder why it didn't choose the popularly accepted "Ambiguously Gay Duo." That name was off the table because there is nothing at all ambiguous about these two. After all, they live together in a one bedroom apartment and love trance music and superfluous candles. No rational human being requires further evidence.Well, anyway, since they are a duo, and their habits get on my nerves, I have decided that one of them is good and the other one is evil. Isn't that the way it always goes? I used to have the theory that whenever you met two girls named Lauren, one would be good and one would be evil. It seems that similar dynamics should apply here.(I first formulated the "Lauren/Battle for the Soul" theory when I was at camp the summer after 8th grade. I had Lauren A. in my cabin, and she only talked about her 18 year old boyfriend, lied about being shot in the butt during a pizza place robbery in Colorado, was rude to me because she didn't like my hair, and ended up snorting ritalin through a hollowed out Bic pen. Lauren B., who lived in the bunk room upstairs, liked to read People magazine, braid my hair, and shared her Blow Pops. I later confirmed this theory at school when Lauren C. got kicked out for drinking and later ended up in a teen boot camp along the lines of Mad Dog's Route for rehabilitation from Maury Povich while Lauren D. is pursuing a master's in social work. Just things to consider...)And, truthfully, the real reason I've decided that one is good and the other evil is because one of them was nice to me. (Dammit! How am I supposed to be righteously angry for all of the trance music when one of them is nice to me?!?!) #1 offered to hold the door open for me when I was carrying heavy stuff the other day. And, he was pretty far away from the door when he made the offer, so it really was pretty nice.Therefore, rather than giving up my battle entirely, I've just decided that he is the good one, and his partner, otherwise known as the nefarious #2, is responsible for everything I despise about my bottom-dwelling neighbors. (After all, just letting go and seeing them as people really isn't an option...)So, to clue you in, one of them chain smokes and has an "I Love Hillary" bumper sticker, and the other wears a sweater around his neck, has tiny, pseudo-intellectual glasses, and I swear I saw him walking Princeton in a "Pink by Victoria's Secret" baby tee the other day.Baby tee boy is #2.
When You Know You're in a Rut...
"This episode of 'Matlock' again!?!? I feel like I just watched the senior citizen seer-suckered super hero get Darlene off for the back alley knifing of her live-in boyfriend Wayne... Well, at least the mailman's here. I better peek to make sure I can check the mail and avoid awkward hallway small talk with all of my neighbors, especially while I'm still wearing my bathrobe and knee high socks."
Woody Allen Burns me Again
I should have known not to trust him. I really should have. I should have recognized the fact that even though "Match Point" received good reviews, I have yet to like a Woody Allen film (other than "Antz" which I'm pretty sure doesn't really count because it's animated and he just provides the voice; plus Sharon Stone doesn't frighten me in that one either and usually I must turn away from her gaze for fear that my skin will be ripped from my face by staring into the cavernous depths of her soul-less eyes much like the horrific fate that befell all of the unfortunate people who wouldn't listen to Harrison Ford in "Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark." Some things are not meant to be seen by mortal eyes - ever). Although, actually, now that I think about it, I liked "Manhattan Murder Mystery" too, but I think that's because of Diane Keaton. Also, Woody Allen doesn't seem obsessed with sex in that one, and basically Woody Allen and sex in the same thought bubble makes me want to, in the words of my 12 year old self, gag myself with a spoon.Also, for someone who is so intelligent, does he not know better than to refer to his feelings for Soon-Yi as a more "paternal kind of love"? (In case you think I'm exaggerating here, reference "Vanity Fair" from last November.) Gee, I wonder why it seems that way Woody? Maybe it's the decade you spent acting as her actual father before marrying her that gives your relationship that little something extra the rest of us call incest or extreme creepiness. But, then again, maybe you are pretty smart and just wanted some more press before "Match Point" was released. I can't say for sure. Either way, something's off.Anyway, back to the movie. I will say that I picked up some interesting tidbits about the British. Apparently, they never take care of their own children and drink champagne constantly. Whether they drink all the time because they are celebrating the fact that they don't have to watch their children, or they have to hire someone to watch their children because they're always drunk, I can't say. It seems like quite the "which came first? the chicken or the egg" to me.Now, what bothered me most about the film was the way it was marketed. The previews made it seem like this was a fascinating thriller about an obsessed/deranged woman. But, that was not the case at all. I don't want to spoil the end of the movie, but I want to say this: There was nothing at all crazy about the way Scarlett Johansson's character acted. I think she had completely normal and justifiable emotions in light of the way she was being treated.The crazy one was Chris Wilton (played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers). He was a cold, manipulative son of a bitch. And, yet, the way the movie plays out....Well, I said I wouldn't ruin anything.I'm just tired of women being portrayed as "crazy" and "psycho" when they do nutty things like expecting men who claim to love them not to approach them with shotguns.Which of the following is crazy: A) Trying to have a rational discussion about your pregnancy or B) Pretending to leave the country so you can get out of a break up talk?And, I especially don't like Mr. Woody Allen making these crazy/non-crazy distinctions.Again, which of the following is crazy: A) Being angry at your ex for sleeping with your daughter or B) Expecting your ex, who you left for her daughter, to be appreciative and accept when you offer her a role in your next movie?I will say that it is "crazy" for me to expect more from Woody Allen when it is very clear that neither of us is going to change anytime soon.
Distractions
I feel like I had all of these important (or, at least, important to me) things to write about today, but then I made the mistake of watching the Ellen show before coming in to work. (Not that it's generally a mistake to watch the Ellen show, because it isn't. She's damn funny. We can all use some dancing now and then.) But, I digress, you see Nick Lachey was on Ellen in a "rare daytime interview" (which I need to know more about because what else does Nick Lachey have to do during the day? Why is this so rare and special? Does Nick Lachey even get a lot of interviews? Other than the stuff with Ok! and Star where he takes off his shirt or talks about how he married a virgin? I mean, when did Nick get to be such a huge recording star that's he too good for daytime? After all, Mr. Lachey, Dolly Parton and Martin Sheen can give daytime interviews, and you are in no way better than Dolly or Martin. Plus, I watched "Newlyweds," I know that Nick spends most of his days watching basketball and drinking with his brother, Drew. There's no fooling me as to how packed his social/professional calendar is. All I'm saying is let's call a spade a spade. Nick Lachey is not too good for daytime TV.)Well, I was settling in to watch Nick sing - in one of his typically much too shiny button down shirts for that matter - when something very strange happened. Nick was on stage. The lights were low. Everyone was getting ready for the baring of his soul. Ellen was taking a moment.And, then they played the wind chimes.Yes, wind chimes. Now, of course there's a much more technical and musically correct term for said wind chimes, but I don't care. (We still know what I'm talking about - metal tubes hung at various lengths that are strummed by a wand.) Whatever, the term is, I'm just bothered by their very existence.Nick Lachey - you are not Neil Young. I don't even think you want to be Neil Young or know who he is. Also, this is not the 1970s. Unless you are preparing to tell us a sweeping tale of lost love and the Vietnam War, you should leave wind chimes out of your music. They just don't belong.And, really, I know you had plenty of problems with old Joe Simpson during the course of your marriage, but I think it's still ok to consult him from time to time.I know he wouldn't have green lighted the wind chime idea.
Well, last Friday I learned that I've sustained a small back injury.And, the worst part about it is that I'm supposed to avoid exerting myself for the next 6 - 8 weeks. Yep, no sports for Laurel. I have no idea what I'll do with myself, or how I'll tell the other members of my basketball team. That's not even scratching the surface of what it's going to be like to let down everyone I'm training for the marathon with.Oh, the horror.As someone I know said when I got back from the doctor, "So, you've hurt yourself in a way that requires you to take painkillers and be lazy for the next month?""Doctor's orders," I said.It's a rough life.
As I was picking up my chicken biscuit this morning, I noticed that my Chik-fil-A clerk was clearly wearing a name tag that read "YAA."I assume that next to her wanting to hurt herself because she is always greeted with bad renditions of Outkast lyrics at parties, she gets really tired of answering the question, "So, what's with that second 'A'? Do you really need it?"But, I have to say that I need to know the answer to that question. Why is there the second 'A'? What does it add to the name (that's really not so much a name, but a kind of guttural sound)? What were her parents thinking? Were they thinking at all?And, if you do indeed pronounce both a's, well then, her parents are just cruel.