Yet Another Excellent Reason I Never Should Have Pursued a Career in Professional Sports
(Obviously, the first and best reason is my complete lack of talent. The second would be my fear of balls, bats, golf clubs, etc. and the tendency to duck and scream like a little girl when any such apparatus comes near me. But, we'll have to put all that aside for the sake of the following discussion. Join me in what I do best - let's fantasize about a completely different reality than the one at hand despite all logic and accepted norms.)Lately, I've been training Cassidy to go off her leash when we're out but still obey basic commands. The main reason for this is that I want to be able to play fetch with her. (Living in an apartment, we require dog parks and other such open areas to play fetch. Otherwise, my lamps are in danger.) And, fetch is by far my favorite game. I like the exertion disparity. I stand; Cassidy runs furiously back and forth. She's tired and needs a nap, and I manage to avoid exercise for one more glorious day.Anyway, we're playing fetch when I realize that every time I throw the ball, I'm actually saying "whoosh" out loud with each toss.I know we're talking about me here, and I should have the answer, but what is that about?The only person I could be talking to is myself. It's not like "whoosh" is in my dog's vocabulary. Am I so worried that my throws are pitiful, I add sound effects to try and give them some oomph? Do I just like the way the word sounds? Have I become one of those people who can't help themselves from talking out loud despite how nutty it sounds to anyone passing by?And, the worst part is that I didn't even notice I was saying "whoosh" until five or so minutes into the game. Can you even imagine what I would be like if I was involved in regular sports competition? I could probably put Monica Seles to shame. Plus, since "whoosh" isn't exactly what most Americans would add to a game of fetch with their dog, I think we can pretty much assure that my guttural noises would be weird. I'd probably even end up like Steve Carell from "The 40 Year Old Virgin" and espouse the names of current pop stars when in distress.I think it's safe to say that the broadcasters would not be kind. And, as for my nickname? I don't even want to think about it.I'm just so relieved I chose a different path...
Out and About
I'm not going to lie - yesterday was a fat day. And as many people know, and the rest of you will now learn, when women feel fat, we often shop for shoes to make ourselves feel better. Unless you're pregnant and suffering from all sorts of hormonal shifts, the foot is usually the one part of your body that doesn't change sizes. Most people don't need "fat shoes" and "skinny shoes." We just have shoes. And, on many days, such as yesterday, that's a Godsend.It is incredibly dangerous to wander into any other sort of store on a fat day. I made the mistake of going into Old Navy. (Embarrassing truth be told, I was looking for clothes for my dog. Shopping for my dog is the other thing I do on fat days. But, when I actually had the thought that none of Old Navy's offerings were "girly enough," I knew I was not myself and high-tailed it out of there.) However, during my brief time there, yesterday was the only time anyone has every tried to help me in Old Navy, and I knew something was up. Salespeople can smell low self-esteem like a dog can smell fear. Before you know it, they've talked you into trying on many, much-too-trendy and not-your-color clothes because they sense your desperate need for validation. Eventually, they'll start throwing items on the pile without even asking because they know if they give you one little compliment about looking thin, you'll be trapped in their clutches and their commission will go up because you can't fight that icky feeling that comes with realizing one of your skirts doesn't fit the way it did last week. ("Yes, yes, you do want the camouflage-patterned bolero jacket with accompanying skinny scarf" [insert maniacal laugh with devilish finger wiggling here] "You are mine, insecure shopper!")Anyway, let's get back to the shoes. Normally shoe shopping is of little stress to me. I like closed toe. I like open toe. I like a whole array of shoe colors. But, I do not, my dear friend, like the peep toe. You see, my second toe is much longer than my big toe. And, by much longer, I mean much longer. (My mother says that means I'll be rich someday. I think she made that up, but I like it. Although, obviously, the way things are going, "rich" is a long way off. I'd be happy with "subsistence level.") And, when I put on a peep toe shoe, the only toe peeping out is my abnormally long second toe. If you don't believe me, reference the photo. And, believe me when I say that it's actually must worse in person. 
War Eagle!
Browsing for Bargains
I think my upstairs neighbor got a ferret while I was away. Either that, or he has taken to scurrying across the floor.Neither option makes me happy.
Late Night Dining
Saturday night, I went to Auburn's first football game of the season in Auburn. Auburn is about two hours from Birmingham, and the game didn't kick off until 6:45, so it was a late night drive back.A little after ten at night, a friend and I decided to stop for food. (They don't take credit cards at the concession stands, and there were no ATMs inside the stadium. Most people probably expect this - I didn't. I spent most of the second half very hungry.) I also didn't want anything fried, so we decided to give the Subway in Alexander City a try.As we walked up, a Subway worker was standing behind the locked door. We assumed that the Subway was closed, since most of them don't stay open very late, but then we saw that the sign actually said that the store was open until midnight. And, as we got closer, she eventually unlocked the door and invited us in.(After this kind of lead-in, we should have known that things were going to be weird.)The moment we stepped through the door, the girl working at Subway started to tell us her saga, "Oh God y'all. Ok, y'all don't look creepy. Come on in. I'm only 16, and they left me up here all alone for the night. I was getting so scared. My imagination was running wild. I was gonna get my Momma to come up here, but she has to work too, so instead I just decided to put my two day notice in. I've been baking bread all night and hiding in the back because I did not want to be here by myself..."After explaining herself (which I completely understood, but I was still very, very hungry), she did actually allow us to place an order, but we could only have turkey or ham. She didn't have enough chicken or much cheese. (And, as another little note, I don't really think she knew how to bake bread because most of my sandwich was kind of mushy.)While she made our sandwiches, she went on to tell us how much she hated Subway and about all of the other places she might want to find a job.As we got to the check out, she told us that the drink machine was broken too, so all there was was flavored water. (I really don't like flavored water.) And, as I finally tried to pay her, thinking I would charge both meals to my card since this was not the time to ask for separate checks, she told me we could just go ahead and take everything "on the house" since she couldn't figure out the register either.(Note to Subway: broken drink machine, difficult register, lack of supplies - this might be why people don't leave sixteen year olds alone to run a store. And, yes, I think the personal safety aspect is fairly compelling as well.)Now, I love free stuff, and the free sandwiches certainly made up for the time delay and lack of decent drinks, but I still felt bad taking stuff from a disgruntled adolescent fast food worker who was terrified of being robbed. I asked if she was sure about this decision about three times before we left. (Also, a couple of her friends had arrived by then, so I felt better that she wasn't alone anymore.)But, it seems my dining companion didn't have any of the same concerns. When we got back to the car, I noticed he had grabbed chips, too."What?" he said. "If it's on the house, isn't it all on the house?"
Are You Sure You Want to Turn That Up?
Because of Labor Day weekend, I've had plenty of opportunities to listen to various countdowns on the radio over the past few days. Driving back and forth to Auburn and the lake gave me plenty of free time, too.Truth be told - song lyrics fascinate me. It's amazing how many horrible phrases, bad rhymes, and weird stories can find themselves into songs, but because there's a beat and a catchy tune, no one notices how strange the words are. (Word to the wise, this is also why it is never a good idea to quote song lyrics during romantic or other intimate moments. "Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways," sounds a hell of a lot better being belted out by Poison than it will when you try to express your remorse over a break up. Trust me - these things don't translate.)A nine-year-old would get an "F" if her or she rhymed "dresser" and "beretta" (as well as a probably well-deserved trip to the school counselor), but that's what R. Kelly does in "Trapped in the Closet: Chapter 1." And, let's consider the case of "Escape" by Rupert Holmes. Everyone enjoys "pina coladas and getting caught in the rain," but if you actually listen to the rest of the song, you realize it's about a man who decides to cheat on his partner, places a personal ad to do so, and then ends up arranging to meet his very own, also-wanting-to-cheat-via-personal-ad partner. What a crazy coincidence! Oh, more accurately, how creepy is that?!?! Do you still feel the same urge to sing along while car dancing now? As for unacceptable turns of the English language, don't even get me started on Fergie and her "lady lumps."Well, as I was driving down the interstate yesterday, I had the opportunity to hear "That Summer" by Garth Brooks for the first time in years. I like Garth Brooks, and I don't expect a whole lot from his lyrics. Sometimes, it's just fine to make everything simple and easy to understand. Also, I like the little stories in his songs. "That Summer" is about a teenager who goes to work on a ranch when the school year ends and has a tryst with an older woman.What I don't like is this - the song, as told from the perspective of the teen boy, states that the older woman "had a need to feel the thunder." Yes, those are the exact words. And, I'm sorry, but how freakin' ridiculous is that?!?! When you remove the music and have only lyrics, you get a sixteen-year-old boy who basically starts his junior year of high school telling all of his adolescent classmates about "this old chick who totally wanted me" and "how much she wanted to feel the thunder."I invite you to inject as much asinine body language as you want into that fantasy, so long as you come with me to the place where "That Summer" makes you want to laugh out loud rather than sing along.
Family Album
A Rose is a Rose?
You know it's bad when you can no longer differentiate between your own internal monologue and reality. As such, I just spent the last fifteen minutes reviewing four months worth of blogs to make sure that I have not written on this same topic before, but, truthfully, there's no telling. So, if you've heard all of this before - sorry. And, if not, I suppose that's both good and bad for me - at least I have an original topic, but I really do spend way too much time in my own head.Anyway, I'm going to talk about my name. For those of you who don't know, my name comes from the novel "The Optimist's Daughter" by Eudora Welty. (There is an irony here that we'll discuss later.) And, since I am a Laurel and not a Lauren, Laura, or Laurie, it's not often that I encounter anyone else with my name. (Although, as a small child one of my cousins was named Lauren, and our great grandmother had Alzheimer's, so I do respond to many, many incarnations of "Laur," including the occasional L'Oreal, in an almost knee-jerk fashion.)It's also rare to find my name on television or in movies. There was briefly a Laurel on "All My Children," but I think she ended up killing her ex-husband and had to give her autistic daughter away before being sent to prison. Of course, most people had heard of Laurel as the skeptical, pot-smoking nurse sister in "Jerry Maguire." ( (A) The boyfriend of one of my college friend's would play the Bruce Springsteen "Secret Garden" song from the movie with pieces of the movie's dialogue spliced into it so that he could pretend that when Renee Zellweger was saying "I love him, Laurel," it was his girlfriend talking to me - they didn't make it, and (B) I hope that's the closest I ever get to Tom Cruise considering his behavior from the last year or so. I worry he would use those too white teeth to eat me because of my belief in psychiatry.) There's also a very unfortunate movie called "Sommersby" wherein Richard Gere plays opposite Jodie Foster's character Laurel. I can't even speak of it because trying to remember the incredibly awkward chemistry between those two only causes me pain.Of course, my favorite "Laurel on film" is in the made-for-television movie "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?" which, in addition to the awful, too-long title, features an incredibly over-bleached Tori Spelling from her 90210 days when she was in the abusive relationship with rock star Ray as Laurel. Can you top that? I think not.Well, my original point being that it is rare to meet another Laurel, when I was in the craft store yesterday (because I do those things), the cashier who ran my card said, "Oh, my daughter's name is Laurel, too."We chatted for a second. I told her I thought that was neat. (And, yes, I probably did actually use the word "neat." I become a different, less capable person in the confines of the craft store.)Then she said, "Yeah, I always hoped she'd meet a man named Hardy."I just tried to freeze my face then because I was sure whatever reaction I had would not be appreciated."Just kidding," she said. "But, I did always think of her as a Southern belle just waiting for her Confederate soldier to come home."Even though I was obviously relieved that the "Laurel and Hardy" couple was a joke, I just didn't know how to react to that one either. Maybe being in Chicago for two months ruined me because I forgot that it's still "ok" to mention the Confederacy like it's a good thing. Maybe I was surprised because I rarely think of myself as a Southern belle since the last time I stepped out of a hoop skirt at the age of seventeen. Mainly, I guess I just didn't think of my name as representing some sort of combo of these two things. It was weird, and I don't think I like it.So, from now on - I only answer to L'Oreal. After all, what could possibly be the connotations with that one...
The Moments I Live For?
This past weekend, my seven-year-old cousin and I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some snacks. As we were waiting in line to check out, she looked around at all of the glossy magazines near the register. (Maybe I should have been censoring what she can see, but my face was buried in "Soap Opera Digest" so that I could find out all of the "comings and goings" of my favorite stars without actually having to pay for the magazine. Reading and flipping pages that fast is quite the challenge, let me tell you, and therefore requires most of my focus.)After a few seconds, my cousin pointed to a picture of a celebrity and said, "I know her.""That's Jennifer Aniston. You've probably seen her on TV.""Oh, yeah," she responded, I suppose differentiating between people who have dinner at her house and people who are in the movies."She's pretty, isn't she?" I said. (My conversation skills are not the best when I still have one eye on the weekly recap of "General Hospital.")"She's not as pretty as you," she answered, showing the glorious innocence of children.And, while I know this comment is not true and is colored by familial love, it still didn't give the women behind us in line the permission to LAUGH OUT LOUD. And, it certainly didn't give her permission to still be laughing THREE MINUTES LATER.As Bill Cosby taught us, children say the darndest things, but I still don't think my cousin's comment warranted quite that much mirth. Plus, if I was in a similar position, I would at least have the courtesy to wait until I was in my car to crack up.It's the nice thing to do, and it means that I don't have to be obsessing over the incident four days later. After all, I have so much else to worry about...
You've Really Got to Think About who that Babysitter Is
This past Friday, I went to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate my baby cousin's birthday. Chuck E. Cheese was pretty much as I remembered it - screaming children, loud bells and whistles, the ever present smell of pizza, and a wandering mascot. But, there were 3 major differences from the play land I knew as a child:1. There is no more animatronic band. Yep, it seems that the "Showbiz Players" (or whatever they were called) have disappeared. There is no cuddly bear, no mouse cheerleader, no tambourine. Instead, there's just one large Chuck E. Cheese who occasionally moves about. And, even though the logical part of me knows that I was terrified of the animatronic band and all of its mechanical gyrations, I still missed it. (Although this probably comes as no surprise to anyone, many aspects of Chuck E. Cheese scared me as a child. I was also nervous about the ball pit. I was convinced that there either was no bottom or that it was like getting into the deep end of the pool, and I would somehow end up drowning in the ball pit, and they would find my poor little body tucked just beneath the surface with a large red plastic ball trapped in my still open, I-was-trying-to-scream mouth. Needless to say, that was not how I wanted to go.) Plus, with no animatronic band, there is more time to broadcast poorly done music videos starring struggling character actors as furry creatures, and I fully believe the band is the lesser of those 2 evils.2. It seems a whole lot easier to earn tickets. Now, it may be that it was always pretty simple to win tickets, but because I was a kid it seemed really hard. Sure, that could be the explanation. (And, sure, my trouble with tickets could have had a lot to do with my lack of coordination and fear of many games...) But, based on how many 6 year olds I saw wandering around with their hands full of big prizes, I think they've just made the games easier. I, for one, am disappointed. We've got to remember to challenge our children. And, even though Chuck E. Cheese is supposed to be a "happy place," a little strife never hurt anybody. Or, maybe, it does hurt, but that's how we get artists, great novelists, and ministers. I'm just asking for a few more hurdles; it's good for growth.3. I noticed what I've decided to call "the hidden danger" of Chuck E. Cheese. Lots of children were brought by their grandparents. At first glance, this would seem lovely. The kids are spending time with their grandparents, this is a special activity for the kids, and everyone is having a good time. However, once you dig beneath the surface, something more sinister rears its ugly head. I saw one Grandma standing next to her grandson and feeding him token after token while repeating, almost mantra-like, the phrase, "Get the bonus, Baby. Get the bonus." And, that's when I realized that when Grandma isn't at Chuck E. Cheese, she's on the bus from the senior center down to the casino with a bucket of quarters in her lap. Grandma loves the slots, and she's probably turning poor Bobby into a slots-lover too even though he's at least 12 years away from being able to gamble legally. When they go home, Grandma probably only lets her grandson watch PBS or the celebrity poker tournament because she can be sure there won't be too much sex or violence on either of those. Little Bobby is learning to love risk, and he doesn't even know it.That's right, people - Chuck E. Cheese isn't just a wonderland of games and lights, it's a training ground for the future gamblers of the world. Let's get the word out, so this "hidden danger" won't be kept in the dark anymore.
My Diet
Friday evening, I ate out. This is pretty normal for my weekend activities, and I didn't have anything of interest in the fridge, so it was also necessary. For most of dinner, I was enjoying myself immensely - I had good food, good company, and speedy service. For awhile, all was well.Then, as the waitress came over to refill my drink about halfway through the meal, she looked down at my plate and said, and I quote, "You go girl!" She laughed, too.Now, as a female and a human being with feelings, I don't really like it when people comment on how much I've eaten. I especially don't like it when they seem awed my how much food I've consumed.And, to best convey my upset, I should probably mention the name of the "restaurant" now. This didn't happen at some sort of swanky place only visited by anorexics and low-carb addicts so that you understand why the wait staff isn't used to people finishing their meals. This happened at IHOP! IHOP, people - as in THE INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES!Don't you think they've probably seen people actually drink the syrup there?Sure, I may have been eating something called the Pancake Combo, but it was incredibly economical. And, I may have asked for both chocolate chip pancakes and bacon strips, but I hadn't eaten all day. Plus, at the risk of beating a dead horse, isn't this IHOP? Isn't this one of the few places one is free to eat beyond all normal standards of what is healthy and/or gross without repercussion? (IHOP and The Cheesecake Factory, right?) Short of ordering pure lard rather than butter or heavy cream on my buttermilk short stack, is there really any request I can make that the IHOP hasn't heard before?The next time the waitress came back to refill my diet coke (let's not dwell on the irony here), I could barely look her in the eye. With a few words, she had taken my meal from "highly enjoyable" to "full of shame."I don't think my self-esteem has been the same since.
Coffee Talk
I haven't been able to put together many intelligent thoughts today, and I think it might have something to do with the fact that I'm still reeling from a conversation I had earlier:Setting: StarbucksMe: (Approaching the table with my tall drip coffee) Is that the skim milk you have there?Stranger: (Holding a large silver pitcher) No, it's the non-fat milk. Sorry.At the risk of sounding too much like Britney Spears in a particularly embarrassing and widely circulated video out take from her series "Chaotic" - huh?I guess this is how the universe repays me for dissing the thesaurus yesterday.
Too Little, Too Late?
Back in the day, when I taught English 101 (poorly, I might add), I would make a list at the beginning of the semester with 4 words on it: good, bad, interesting, and different. I told my students that I never wanted to see any of these words in their papers, and that if they encountered one of these terms while proofreading their work, they had to replace it with something else."Why?" you might ask - because I don’t know what any of those words mean.Rather, I know what those words mean to me, but I have no idea what they mean to you. Your mom might be a "good" parent because she takes care of you by doing your laundry, cooking your meals, and picking up your towels off the bathroom floor. Or, she might be a good mom because she made you do certain chores for yourself and thereby taught you self-reliance. Just based on the word "good," I have no idea. Similarly, Mr. Johnson who lives across the street could be a "bad" neighbor because he constantly has parties and takes up all the parking on the street. Or, you could think he’s a bad neighbor because he killed your cat. There’s a world of difference there - not to mention a gross disparity in how much sympathy you’re going to get from me.So, when my students stumbled on one of those terribly vague and awfully subjective little words, they were supposed to get much more specific and use clear examples to illustrate and explain the ideas and concepts in their writing. As most of us who have been in an English class know, you can’t just tell me you’ve got a great best friend and expect me to fully back your argument - you’ve got to show me.Of course, I was largely ineffective at getting this idea across.More so than anything else, I just seemed to develop an ever-expanding list of words that were not concrete and much too open to interpretation, especially without the teacher-begged-for examples - words like things, cool, neat, fun, likable, enjoyable, evil, likely to change, etc.Much to my continuing frustration, when I said "replace these vague terms with specific illustrations," my students heard, "go to the thesaurus function in Microsoft Word."For the most part, I try to block out my teaching days. After all, that year of my life tended to involve way too much crying and yelling. (The yelling occurred on the part of the students by the way. I certainly never worried about the extent of swear words in their vocabulary, although sometimes their verbal abuse did lack for proper conjugation. "No, Jenny, I suck, and she sucks - not you sucks.")But, yesterday on the train, I became overwhelmed with the desire to give my little lesson on specificity and word choice to a stranger. In a conversation sparked by none other than ever-present Dan Brown and his "Deception Point," random girl on the train started in (at a very high volume) on how she wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t "good," and in a shocking corollary to that statement, how much she hated "bad" books.This went on for most of my commute.I almost wish is was possible to elaborate on her conversation, but considering that mainly the words "good" and "bad" were repeated over and over again, it would be hard. (From here on out, I’ll try to ignore the fact that it hurts me to hear "The Da Vinci Code" referred to as a "good" book. "The Da Vinci Code" is entertaining. It’s suspenseful. It keeps the reader’s attention. But, is it full of beautiful language? Does it create thought-provoking and multi-dimensional characters? Does it offer profound commentary on human nature or a particular world view? I give those questions a "no," and so "The Da Vinci Code" doesn’t make the "good" designation in my book. Yes, I am a book snob. But, just because I won’t go with "good," doesn’t mean that I don’t recognize it as an "entertaining" read. Otherwise, let’s agree to disagree.) Anyway, my point is this - as girl on the train was going on, and on, and on, I wished that I had a tape recorder so that I could get her ranting down and play it for all of those former students.Behind my constant harping on nebulous language and poor word choice is simply this lesson - if you’re going to talk or write or use your unique voice, you ought to say something. While this stranger was rambling on and on with only words like "good" and "bad," she wasn’t really getting any sort of point or opinion across. (Do I know what she has read? Do I know why she picks up a book? Do I even know a title of one of these supposed "good" books? No.) Sure, she was talking, but she wasn’t saying anything.Without illustrative and thoughtful language, it is nearly impossible to communicate our thoughts and perspectives. This is why I love literature and language.Unfortunately, discovering teaching techniques a year after the fact is probably why I didn’t make a very good educator.
Location, Location, Location
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Casa de Laurel
This past weekend, I had some out of town visitors from the great state of Alabama. And, since one friend stayed with me and another stayed elsewhere, it made me think about the vast differences in accommodations between a stay with unemployed Laurel and an overnight visit with our other artist friend - who we'll refer to as "the good one" from now on.1. The good one's condo is beautiful. It has state of the art appliances, a very large flat screen TV, and furniture most people would kill for. It is also a two bedroom, so visitors get their own room complete with a memory foam mattress.In contrast, my apartment is largely empty and inflatable. I only have 4 pieces of furniture in Chicago and half of them require air pumps. Thus, your options pretty much include having a seat on the inflatable blue chair from Target or sleeping on the air mattress from K-Mart. Oh wait - I forgot something. If neither of those options is appealing, there's always the deflated air mattress that has a hole in it, but still resides on the living room floor so that my dog can lay on it during the day. I suppose that could get thrown into the mix as well.2. Little did I know before this weekend, but apparently the good one brews fresh green tea in the morning and serves it to you with breakfast.Based on the previous description of my apartment, I hope you feel free to assume that I don't have a tea set. In fact, I'm lucky if I can find a clean glass. And, while I don't have gourmet beverages, I am willing to run down to the market across the street where not much English is spoken and pick up a diet coke or apple juice for my guests. What can I say? I'm just that giving.3. A stay with the good one means that you will be chauffeured around the city in a pristine BMW.From my apartment, we get around by glorious public transportation. If you're really lucky (as my friend was this past weekend), I'll even pick the car with a large panhandling woman in a "Hustle 24/7/365" t-shirt who has her screaming baby with her that won't stop sticking his hands down his own dirty diaper.Please, please - don't everyone start looking into flights to visit me in Chicago now. I know I've given a pretty good sales pitch...Actually, I think I'll stop writing now. I need to give the good one a call and see if he's interested in a live-in maid or personal assistant.
Supermarket Sweep
Yesterday I went to the Trader Joe's grocery store. Trader Joe's is probably best known for their plentiful selection of 2 buck chuck (the Charles Shaw wines that never cost more than 3 dollars), but their other claim to fame is the high quality of their organic, pesticide-free, incredibly natural foods.Personally, I'm not all that big into the organic market. I love my nutrasweet. I like the fact that the food in my freezer can survive for decades because of the wonder that is preservatives. Truth be told, if it tastes great, I don't necessarily need to know what's in it or how it was put together. Don't believe me? I still eat hot dogs on a regular basis.But, Trader Joe's isn't very far away, and did I mention the fact that they sell really cheap wine?So, on to the story of my actual grocery shopping...I found some veggies, and I decided that I wanted some deli meat as well. When I got to the sliced turkey, I noticed that the big selling point at Trader Joe's is the fact that their meat is "antibiotic free."Now, I can understand why it would be important that your meat is steroid free. (Again, though, maybe this is why I would make a bad farmer. It seems like a bigger turkey would be a better turkey. As long as there was no poultry related roid rage, I could get on board with that.) I can even understand why some people like to know that their turkey was raised in the lovely open air of Nova Scotia with kind workers who gave the turkeys baths in Evian water and blow dried their tail feathers. Sure, I'm not this person, but I can see where it might be an appealing notion.But, I would prefer that my turkey be treated with antibiotics rather than not. If that sucker is sick, pump it up with some benadryl or amoxicillin or whatever it takes to make it well. I certainly don't want to be the one eating turkey that was "cured" with acupuncture, aromatherapy or holistic medicine. If it's the meat going into my body, I want the use of traditional Western veterinary medicine. You could hose that baby down with disinfectant, and I'd be a happy camper.Rather than being a plus, I have to say that "antibiotic free" was a big detriment in my book. I walked away from the all natural meat and will probably be getting some nice Butterball brand turkey later this afternoon.And, please no e-mails about what's really in that one. I truly am happier not knowing.
Some Thoughts on my Daytime Viewing
Now, I hinted at this a few weeks ago, but I think it's time to go ahead and say it aloud. And, believe me when I say that it pains me to admit this, but I don't think that "Unsolved Mysteries" holds up as I age.For those of you wondering how I can still watch "Unsolved Mysteries" in today's day and age, let me remind you that I am currently blessed with (a) tons of free time during the day that those of you who "work" and have nutty things like "health insurance" and "retirement plans" don't enjoy and (b) the Lifetime network. Every day at 1 p.m., I can tune into an hour-long episode of the real life human drama. (Except on Mondays. On Mondays they rerun "Angela's Eyes" in place of "Unsolved Mysteries." Don't even get me started on how I feel about this poor programming decision.)And, also, yes, there was a time in my life when "Unsolved Mysteries" seemed amazing and did resonate with me. I believed that I could contribute to a better, less crime-ridden society by paying careful attention to the dramatic re-enactments and composite photos, and I also thought I was learning a lot of secrets about the world around me that certain key government officials DID NOT want me to know. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must also confess that there was a time when I was relatively convinced that the sought-after suspect in an old Oklahoma murder was my deceased great uncle. It could be true. I could have been watching too much television and needing to get out of the house more. Maybe it's a little of both. We'll leave that one up in the air.)I still think there's a lot to be said for putting wanted criminals on television in an entertaining format. After all, John Walsh and others do capture wanted men and women. Also, I love my Robert Stack. I only wish he had moved into the book on tape business. I find his voice soothing, although that might just be because of how much of him I watched as a child. Do I really like Robert Stack's voice, or does the fact that his voice reminds me of my youth make me like it?Well, now I've wound myself into another chicken or the egg situation. Let's move on.Personally, I was always amazed by how many murderers used to watch "Unsolved Mysteries." It seemed that most of the updates involved a story that began with, "Well, Jake and I were watching 'Unsolved Mysteries' when he seemed to get a little nervous. And, then he said he was going for some smokes during the commercial break, but I noticed that he packed a bag before getting in the car...And, he asked me to make him a lot of sandwiches..." (It also always amazed me how many women made their husbands/boyfriends snacks before watching them run from the law.) Why in the world would you agree to watch "Unsolved Mysteries" with other people if you knew you were a fugitive? Would it really be that hard to say, "Nah, why don't we put the game on instead"? Is it an act of stupidity or ego or bizarre vigilance - "Awesome, another week has gone by without me being featured on national television"? Are these murderers also adopted children who don't know they birth parents, so they're actually hoping to make the "lost loves" but not the "wanted" segments? And, finally, when they do see themselves on "Unsolved Mysteries," would it be that difficult to run after the program rather than in the middle of it? After all, I'm pretty sure that's the definition you get when you look up "arousing suspicion" in the dictionary.Oh well, it's not like I would be a very good fugitive myself. Other than loving wigs and hair dye, I would never remember to respond to my new name, and after my first night of cocktails in a new town, everyone would know my life story - including the details of my crime and how I hoped the actress recreating my tale didn't look fat or splotchy. (Wouldn't that be the worst?)Anyway, my point is this - I used to put some credence into "The Unexplained" segments. I could buy that 2 older women returning from a bingo night at the church saw a UFO and consequently suffered from radiation poisoning. I could accept that strange things do indeed happen in the Bermuda Triangle. But, as I mentioned a few weeks ago, I cannot accept that there is a human face on the surface of Mars. And, I certainly cannot get on board with the story I saw a couple of days ago.The segment opens with a seemingly sane and well-dressed, poised young woman discussing the fact that she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She then moves on to detail her prayers, etc. So far, I'm good. I'm even more than good - I'm actually listening which is more than I can say for most of my television viewing. It's when we get to how her prayers were answered that the mind begins to boggle. She says, and I couldn't make this up if I tried, that "a strange vapor" started to fill up the room while she was resting on her bed at home before "a small, floating disk with blinking lights" came in through the window, floated over her body, and went back out the window and that "the visitor from another planet took her cancer away."[Insert stunned silence here.]Is this a joke? Did someone at the "Unsolved Mysteries" office actually buy this? Does someone who has not spent time on mind-altering drugs accept this as fact? How did this one make it past what I assume must be some means of fact-checking or research to verify aspects of a story? Is there a disgruntled employee? An act of sabotage? Was someone so tired of talking to alien abductees that they just became jaded - their dream of working in television reduced to answering a 1-800 line primarily populated with crazies? Was it an experiment gone wrong? Someone wondering how far they could get with nonsense, thinking it would never get on the air? I simply cannot understand.And, even if the absolute absurdity of this story didn't register with producers and assistants, how did it get past the video technicians? After all, someone actually had to listen to this woman describe her miniature UFO, create the image, and impose it over a video of her sleeping body. If that's not a moment when a little bit of you dies on the inside, I don't know what is.So, in so many words, "Unsolved Mysteries" is not all that I remembered it to be, and there goes another piece of my childhood.
The Movie-of-the-Week Viewer's Guide
With my late night viewing over the past week, I've seen a strange combination of the "Scream" trilogy and my beloved Lifetime movies. (Patrick Dempsey is in "Scream 3." Does anyone remember that? That's part of where he was before being reborn on "Grey's Anatomy." Weird, huh?) And, as such, I was inspired. I now offer you my rules for surviving a Lifetime movie.Rule #1: You are always going to trust the wrong person. Always. If you believe your husband despite the warnings of all the other townspeople, a string of doctors, and multiple police officers, it will turn out that he is trying to kill you. On the other hand, if you listen to all those people, run from your husband, and try to turn him in, it will turn out that your husband was innocent all along and has actually been framed by some other seemingly insignificant best friend/town sheriff/third cousin, who, of course, is also the person you chose to run straight to when you became terrified for your life. (Just ask Marcia Cross about "Living in Fear" - like all the others, she had to learn the hard way.) You must always go against your first instinct, but I still can't promise that that will save you.Rule #2: Your best friend is a goner - especially if that best friend is a thinker. Should you want those close to you to survive your drama of the week, in no way, shape, or form confide your concerns to them. Don't tell them what you learned from microfilm down at the local library. Don't mention that you found the new nanny trying on your clothes when she thought you were out. And, under no circumstances reveal that you "just don't know who to believe anymore." These words are like a beacon to the caring friends of the world, and they can't help but investigate for themselves. Unfortunately, this info hunt will lead to their early demise, and you will then have one less ally in that final showdown with the psychopath in your life.Rule #3: If anyone tells you that they faked their own death "to protect you," DON'T BELIEVE THEM! No one pretends to be dead if they really love you. It's kind of like a really extreme version of "He's Just Not That Into You." And, I know it hurts to hear it, but I think it's a pretty good rule of thumb for relationships - men who really care about you don't just call when they say they will, they also let you know when they're ALIVE. (Kellie Martin eventually figures this out in "Live Once, Die Twice," but she ends up duct taped to the hood of a yacht because she is willing to believe her bigamist, death-faking husband's claim that all of his shenanigans were part of his mission as a secret government agent. Secret agent? Really Kellie? Even I expect more from the heroines of my Lifetime movies.)Rule #4: It's best to kennel your pets during times of extreme distress. Either (a) the crazy who is making your life hell will kill your beloved canine companion or (b) you'll let the dog/cat out, the animal won't return to the door, you'll go outside to look for him or her, and then crazy will sneak into your home to attack you.Rule #5: Make sure the evil doer is dead. Otherwise, they're just bound to move to a new town and pull the same crap one someone who looks exactly like you.Rule #6: Don't forget that the greatest danger sometimes lurks in your own head. Sometimes you think you're being stalked when really you've just got another personality that keeps killing all of your friends and co-workers and writing scary messages on the wall to make it look like you're in grave danger. (Please reference "Victim of Beauty" for more information.) Lifetime would probably prefer it if I said that "the great danger in your own head" could be a lack of self-esteem that leads to an abusive relationship or flagging confidence that means you don't trust your instincts when it comes to the neighbor much too interested in your young daughter. But, come on. We all know that potentially murderous repressed alter egos are a lot more of a concern than anything as silly as "believing in yourself."Now, some of these rules may seem severe or reactionary, but you have to remember that we're not dealing with the Hallmark channel here. This is no "Touched by an Angel." And, as such, only extreme caution and suspicion are going to get us all through the most difficult 2 hours of our lives.
Man's Best Friend
