Crank Yankers

Right after I graduated college, I went to work for a small non-profit firm in Northwest D.C. My title was Assistant Director of Marketing and Development, but since it was a small firm and a non-profit, I usually ended up "wearing many hats" so to speak. And, since the non-profit I worked for operated a CCRC (that's Continuing Care Retirement Community for those of you not in the know), those many hats could be quite interesting."Assistant Director of Marketing" actually meant that I spent a lot of time talking to the elderly and their family members about whether or not it was time for a retirement community, an assisted living facility, or the nursing home. (Yes, it was a crazy good time every day.) I answered a lot of phone calls (including a 1-800 number that did not have any sort of screening process) and a lot of people who called me tended to get my number confused with someone else's (after all, they were pretty old).Also while I had this job, my roommate would call me every day so that we could plan dinner or discuss who needed to pay the gas bill, etc. (You know - the general joys of domesticity.) And every day when I answered the phone, he would try to prank me in some way.Sometimes he pretended that he needed to find retirement housing for his grandfather, sometimes he wanted to sell me bed pans, and other days just had him screaming "she's fallen and she can't get up" into the phone.And, while this behavior of his is somewhat interesting, what is much more fascinating is that he got me every single time. Despite the fact that the person I lived with called me daily with pretty much the same joke, I never caught on. Every time, I would try my best to answer his questions ("Has your father said anything about being ready to move?" "Sanitation devices aren't really my area," "Should I call 911 for you?") until he would start giggling and tell me for the umpteenth time that he wasn't actually one of my clients.It was more than ridiculous and had him believing I might be the most gullible person on earth.But, you see, the truth is that it was nearly impossible for me to catch on because the "normal" phone calls I got were so weird to begin with. (Remember - old people.) One morning, I got a call asking if I was ready for "the 700 pound man on route to my facility." (I know what you're thinking, but could I really make this stuff up? I'm not that creative.) After many frantic calls to the nursing staff who told me we were in no way prepared for this arrival, and they had no idea what I was talking about, the woman on the phone and I finally worked out that she had the wrong number.And, as bad as that was, no call was as uncomfortable as the one when I picked up the phone to find a very angry, Katherine Hepburn-sounding lady loudly asking "when on earth are you going to get over there to bathe my husband?!?!"I'm pretty sure I stuttered as I answered that that wasn't my job, but she wasn't willing to back down for another five minutes as she continued to ask why I wasn't already at her house sponge-bathing away. (I'm still not sure how those numbers got confused.)As stupid as I seemed for all those times on the phone with my roommate, that was the sacrifice I had to make for not being ridiculously unprofessional at the office. (I sure know that if I had laughed in the face of the woman with a 700 pound patient, I would have been called insensitive and a fatist, and that wouldn't have gone over well with the boss man.)These are the lessons about the working world they don't teach you in school. And, this probably explains some of why I never lasted that long in the customer service field.

Labels: story time

My Confession

I could have been disappointed last night. After all, Sunday is usually my "Cold Case"night, and I don't like it when I can't watch "Cold Case." (I like blending the fictional closure of their cases with the close to my week. It completes me.)So, the fact that "Cold Case" wasn't on last night could have really bugged me. But, fortunately, "Cold Case" wasn't being shown for one of my other greatest guilty pleasures - the Hallmark made-for-television movie. Sure, I usually can't find the raping, stalking, abusing men of my Lifetime choices, but, there's something to the heartwarming cheesiness of their stories that just kills me.If I can't have a murderous secretary out to steal her boss' job and man, I want a disheartened widower who learns to love again or an emotionally scarred old maid who finds peace in caring for an orphaned child.Plus, as a crier, there is rarely anything that offers me as much catharsis as a Hallmark movie. You don't even want to know how much tissue I went through when Rosie O'Donnell played the mentally handicapped woman who just wanted to ride the bus.And, as we all know, a crier tears up over both the commercials and the movie. So, in the spirit of the season, I will now share with you my favorite Hallmark commercial.The shot opens in the Principal's office of a high school. A young brunette girl is sitting in a chair in front of the desk and asks why she's been called into the office.The principal, an older woman who looks like one of those "loving on the inside/tough on the outside" ladies, hands the girl a card.The girl opens up the card, reads it, and says, "You're proud of me?"The principal nods and then tells the girls she needs to get back to class.Now, I'm sure that you're thinking that up until this point, this commercial sounds like the most boring thing in the world. A principal who's proud of a student - how bland.But, as the teenager is leaving, the principal looks up and says, "Now, Laurel, don't forget to close the door behind you."Maybe it was my mood. Maybe it was the lowered defenses created by the movie. Maybe I was having a low self-esteem day, but I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I felt like Hallmark and fate were talking directly to me that night. I was a little overcome, and I cried - a lot.In fact, I kind of creepily hoped that they'd show that same commercial again last night just so I could have another one of my mildly pathetic, warm, fuzzy moments.What can I say? I'm sick, and that gold crown really is something special.

Movie Picks

Well, since nothing particularly zany has happened to me in the last few days, I suppose I'll be forced to revisit a story from my childhood. So, I figured I'd tell everyone about the movie that scared me the most as a child - "The Neverending Story."That's right, I was most terrified by "The Neverending Story." Nothing about the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz" got to me. I was cool with the Big Bad Wolf in "Little Red Riding Hood." Not even the title to "Nightmare on Elm Street" bothered me. (I say the title, because, obviously as a four-year-old I didn't see "Nightmare on Elm Street." But, I did know it existed, and I grew up on Elm Street. Kind of freaky, isn't it?)"The Neverending Story" was the big baddie of my nightmares.When I was little, I really liked going to see "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" at the movie theater in the mall closest to our house. In fact, I liked "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" so much, I saw it in the theater four times.So, you can imagine the pain my father felt one Saturday afternoon when he asked me what I wanted to do for the day, and I answered, "Watch 'The Smurfs and the Magic Flute!'"On go number five, my father finally put his foot down. He had had enough of the those little blue creatures, so he made me pick another movie, and, since G-rated movies are hard to come by, we had to settle on "The Neverending Story." (Well, truth be told, I stook to my guns. There wasn't really any "settling" involved. I wanted to see my smurfs, and I wanted to see them tout de suite, if you know what I mean. This whole "other movie thing" was really a tyrannical parent choice.)We went down to the theater, and settled in for the show. But, unfortunately, we didn't really make it past the first half hour. As soon as Atreyu lost his horse Atrax to the Swamps of Sadness, I was done. (How could anyone be punished for crying with death? I don't think it's difficult to understand why such dire circumstances for tears would terrify a small girl.) As soon as the horsey was gone, I started to cry. (And, of course, considering what I had just watched, this only elevated the level of upset, leading to - you guessed it - more tears.) I was crying in a way that meant my father had to escort me out of the theater.In the hallway, I calmed down. My unsuspecting father took this to me that we could go back to watching the movie, but he was very wrong. I refused to re-enter the theater. I was having none else of that movie. (As a small aside, my father does not like to waste money, so you can imagine how strong my objections must have been for us to leave right then and there without him seeing the rest of the film.)And, truth be told, I have never seen the end of "The Neverending Story" since walking out of that theater over twenty years ago. (Is there irony in that?) I avoid it in the video store. I switch the channel when it's on TV.It freaked me out once, and I'm not willing to give it another shot. (If only I would remember to apply this same rule to my dating life...)But, more importantly, do you know what the moral to this story is? When I want to watch some German-based cartoons fight evil, it's best to let me have what I want.

Aging

Well, I'm officially a year older.I was going to attempt a post about the "craziness of this past weekend" that sounded like I was talking about TomKat's wedding when, in fact, I was talking about my own birthday - (do you see what I was going for there? what kind of crazy twist would that have been?) - but, then I realized that I don't have much of anything in common with TomKat, and that creative well ran dry. (Why could I really do? Talk about A-list guests? Exotic sights? An incredible, designer gown? I think we all know my birthday party's classiest moments occurred sometime after I (loudly) shared my theory on olives and their lack of necessity in the world and sometime before I spilled red wine down the front of my shirt.)Then, I thought about writing about my presents. But, since I got "House" on DVD, a book by Amy Sedaris sub-titled "Hospitality Under the Influence," and cash, my gifts were pretty much perfect and, for anyone who knows me, completely expected. I mean, I already get a lot of topic mileage out of Hugh Laurie, alcohol, and running out of money, so I don't want to over-mine, if you will, and find out that the well has gone dry one day.Plus, this is one of the rare weekends I didn't spend eight hours watching Lifetime, so I don't even have cheesy movies to mock and re-hash for the anti-made-for-television crowd. My dog didn't get any new outfits. My landlord has stayed out of sight. And, I haven't run into a single vagrant wanting to predict my future or sell me a dead pigeon.Why am I telling you about everything that wasn't funny enough to write about, you might ask? Because it all leads me to my new worry that turning 27 has killed my storytelling mojo.Normally, weird stuff happens to me all the time - especially on my birthday. At twenty-two, my crazy ex-roommate caused a scene in front of forty people before throwing a beer against the wall and storming out, and I coined the phrase "crazy like a loon and not like a fox." For twenty-three, there was literally dancing on the table. And, last year I threw an 80s prom.Even before I became of legal age, this stuff happened. I spent half of my tenth birthday in a horrendous girl scout camp where an obese camp cook tried to make me eat my weight in spaghetti before a homeless man stole my duffel bag as it was sitting on the front steps of my school when the troop got back and unloaded the van.I usually like to go big.Yet, this past weekend was tame. Some might even say "drama free." I can't help but wonder if I've come to the end of the road for zaniness. Will I stop having the experiences that make for my future anecdotes? Will I have to start writing about food or social issues or what kids will be wearing in the spring to get by? Will I have to embrace gardening or evaluating toaster ovens just to have topics of discussion?I don' think anyone wants to see the day I'm planting crocus bulbs from all the different Home Depots in town to see which one bears the brightest bloom - especially me.All I can say is that if my family gets through all of Thanksgiving dinner without incident, I'm really going to get scared...

My "Real" Job

For anyone who's interested, the website I work for goes live today, and you can check it out at:http://www.rezoom.com

More on the Thunder-Stealers

If ever there was proof that a certain "religion" must be a bar bet that got way out of hand, and L. Ron Hubbard is laughing his ass off from somewhere beyond the grave, let's examine the much-publicized-of-late wedding vows:"girls need clothes and food and tender happiness and frills, a pan, a comb, perhaps a cat"While I am willing to get behind clothes, food, tender happiness, and a comb, I'm not sure what the "frills" are unless that's an antiquated way of saying "diamonds and Marc Jacobs" (in which case, hell yes), but if "frills" has anything to do with doilies, very small buttons, or accessories that would impede my drinking, then that's a big NO.As for a pan and a cat - well, those are just silly.Don't get me wrong, but wasn't L. Ron Hubbard born in the twentieth century? Therefore, I assume he learned to talk pretty much the same way the rest of us did. I mean, it's not like these Scientology texts date back centuries. It seems to me that someone (L. Ron, I mean you) was trying to make himself sound smarter than the rest of us, and doesn't realize that he really comes off as being a bit pretentious and sounding more like the friend you grew up with who picked up a fake accent after a week of watching too much BBC America on extended cable but told everyone else that they "couldn't help it" when they were "exposed to new cultures."I think I might rather go through a silent birth than have to watch an over-priced wedding video of me standing near five or six of my satin-clad friends as I promised to "remember his follies."

Labels: pop culture rantings

Buyer Beware

This evening (yes, this evening, I work late now which is kind of an unsettling phenomenon in my world - especially when it makes me miss my weekly date with Hugh Laurie), I got into an argument with a co-worker as to who has the worse apartment.Apparently, he thought he had me beat because somehow my hardwood floors were such an improvement over his carpeted ones despite my list of complaints that includes an unattractive bricked-in fireplace, textured, brown bathroom walls that actually resemble poop, and a very inconvenient lack of hot water.Luckily, that false sense of victory only lasted until he heard my trump card.As soon as I mentioned the slanting floors - and, by "slanting," I'm talking about a slope that actually prevents me from putting glassware or other valuables on tables or shelves for fear that they will immediately slide off to the floor - he conceded.But, somehow this minor triumph doesn't do a lot for me as I'm sitting in the possibly-in-need-of-condemnation hovel I call home.

Who Knew?

Now, I'll admit that I've never watched "The Game" on the CW. Not only that, I've never wanted to watch "The Game" on the CW. Nothing about a situational comedy based around the lives of the wives and girlfriends of professional football players starring former child actors from other mediocre comedies like "Sister, Sister" and "Sweet Valley High" does it for me.So, you can imagine my surprise when I caught the end credits of "The Game" today (while somewhat impatiently waiting for "Smallville" and my hour-long ogling of Tom Welling to begin) and realized that the executive producer of that show is one highly-respected, Emmy-winning actor by the name of Kelsey Grammer.What bet in hell did he lose?Seriously, if Mr. Grammer is willing to spend his "highest paid sitcom actor in history" dollars on something like that...I've got some stuff I'd like to float by him. My musical loosely based on the life of Britney Spears isn't my only winning notion - I've got a million of them. Why aren't there more serial comedies based around the prison system or probation officers? Chia heads of your favorite celebrities - specifically Napoleon Dynamite? Necklaces that go from silver to gold with a remote control button? Edible safety pins from the dry cleaners? Chairs with adjustable heights? More movie with alternate endings (that you can choose by vote when you're in the theater)? Yet another remake of "The Poseidon Adventure?"Mr. Grammer, when you've got that kind of cash hanging around, I'll be waiting for your call.

Labels: pop culture rantings

Lunch Hour

On Friday, a co-worker and I had lunch at a place called "China Hut," and, as I'm sure you've already figured out, it was indeed a Chinese restaurant.Lunch was good. And, of course, I always love being able to eat soup, an eggroll, some cashew chicken, and fried rice for under $5.00.In fact, my only complaint about the whole experience was how it ended.Truth be told, I love fortune cookies. Obviously, it's not for the taste because we all know that fortune cookies kind of taste like crap and have a truly surprising number of calories for what you're actually getting, but I just love knowing that a new little saying or bit of info is waiting for me. It's the same reason I read my horoscope everyday - it gives me a nice little rush of hope and excitement to think about what might lie ahead. It's not that I think my fortune will come true, but I like thinking about whether or not I'll meet someone that day or week or how much fun I might have that weekend. Plus, the really self-involved part of me likes reading that I am "adored by those who know me" or that my "charm wins many friends." I'll take a compliment from anywhere I can get it and, sadly enough, that even includes inanimate bits of dough.However, when I cracked open my fortune cookie on Friday, I found the following words of wisdom inside: You love Chinese food.What is going on fortune cookie writers!?!? I mean, seriously, I don't care how bad your day was or how burned out you were on scouring google for things that Confucius said - this is just pathetic.First of all, it certainly can't fall under the heading of a "fortune." What am I supposed to do with the fact that I love Chinese food? Look forward to knowing I'll eat more Chinese food at some point in my life? Was I supposed to realize that I didn't just like Chinese food, but I really was ready and willing to take our relationship to the next level and bump our infatuation up to the love stage? (Sure, I can make a commitment like that to burritos, but Chinese food? I just don't know.) I sincerely doubt that my fortune cookie writer put that much time and effort into considering the angle of my fortune, but even if he did, it still sucks.But, perhaps, more importantly, it's not even a stretch. We are definitely in the "stating the obvious" territory. Would I be eating a fortune cookie if I weren't in a Chinese restaurant? No. Would I have driven to the Chinese restaurant if I didn't like Chinese food? Probably not. Would I be willing to put the cardboard-like cookie in my mouth if I was indifferent about the taste of the food? I think not.And, I realize that when I address "fortune cookie writers," I'm probably talking about a soon-to-be-revealed illegal child labor ring or some sort of other horrible third world working condition, but I need a little more thought and creativity in my fortunes. And, isn't any job worth doing, worth doing well? Is this really so much to ask?Let's try a little harder kids. I know you can do better.

Labels: everyday life

Sorry

Well, I wanted to write something really fun today, but I think that my brain is just too tired to think. Life is kind of exhausting when you don't spend most of your time indulging a love of daytime television. Who knew?Also, as we all know, I am not a morning person, and now that I have to keep my showers to under 3 minutes (because otherwise the hot water runs out in my new apartment and I'm in an ice bath), I'm really not a morning person.I worry that my new office mates will be afraid of me because of the stern, obviously displeased look on my face and odd hair style (due to my inability to wash all of the conditioner out my hair before my body goes into convulsions from the cold), and while the facial expression tends to fade after my first Diet Coke, the cowlick is in it for the long haul.

Co-Habitation

Right now, I live next to Kobe, Maggie, and Ethel.Maggie and Ethel are the dogs, and Kobe is the (completely caucasian, female) landlord.As one of my co-workers pointed out, who would have thought that's the way those names would shake out?

The Joy of the HMO

Watching "House" tonight, I was reminded of - obviously, my undying love for Hugh Laurie - and my MRI. Yes, back when I was a senior in college, I had a very unfortunate run-in with a particularly rude set of stairs late one Saturday night and ended up in the emergency room that next Sunday morning with a bum arm. (I will let you infer what you want from that timeline.)But, they didn't really think that there was anything wrong with me in the emergency room, so they sent me home with a prescription for very intense Motrin and a splint. Three weeks and two doctors later, when my arm still hurt, I was in Sibley Hospital for an MRI.I don't know whether or not anyone reading this has ever had an MRI, but it's a very strange experience. Personally, as someone who doesn't really like anything to be out of the ordinary, knowing that you have to go into a room where the magnets are so powerful they'll rip jewelry off your body is, shall we say, unnerving. And, of course, there's still all that normal, awful hospital stuff like wearing nothing but a paper sheath and having to ask permission to use the restroom.At least I was lucky enough to have an open MRI, but I still wasn't pleased with the experience. It isn't exactly easy for me to stay perfectly still - even when the only part of me that has to remain motionless is my lower left arm. Plus, my doctor assured me that my MRI would only last for thirty minutes - at the most. But, of course, as doctors and other medical technicians can be prone to do, he fibbed. How do I know he didn't tell the truth, you might ask. After all, there aren't any clocks in the MRI room, and you certainly can't wear your watch during the test.The trick is to listen to the radio. I guess they're trying to entertain you with soft/classic rock (and, normally soft rock will entertain me), but when you're trapped in a large beeping machine, you're willing to count the number of songs playing just to pass the time. And, once you multiply that by 3 (figuring that songs are about 3 minutes apiece), you start to figure out just how long you've been trapped there.Once I had counted 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I decided to ask the technician how much longer I would be in there. The technician isn't in the room because of all the dangerous electric waves running around and such, but he can speak to you through the intercom system.(Actually, that's how I came to call him "voice in the sky." After my 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I did say, "Voice in the sky - how much longer?" But, I don't recommend such phrasing - I don't think he liked that.)And, of course, I don't mean to imply that you will actually be able to understand the answers that come through the intercom when you've finished posing your question. That would be too much to ask. I felt like I was talking to one of the grown-ups on "Peanuts."So, once I got no answers and suffered through 4 more songs, I decided it was time to start singing along to the soft/classic rock, primarily out of boredom and discomfort. Lucky for me and my technician, the song I picked up on was "Shook Me All Night Long."I can't say for sure if it was the end of the test or my tone deaf rendition of AC/DC that made the technician wrap up (my strange way of addressing him might have been a factor too), but at least I got out of that room shortly after I started singing.Unfortunately though, if it was the singing that ticked him off, he certainly had the last laugh - a week later, the MRI showed that I had a broken hand and I spent six weeks in a cast.

The Last One

In the final installment of "Laurel Meets Celebrities," I offer the following. (Sure, this trilogy is no "Die Hard," but at least it shows that my brain might still function following my move. And, by "meets," I obviously mean "might be in somewhat the same vicinity as.")After I graduated from high school, my parents took the family to Australia for our last "official" family vacation before I left the house. My aunt lives in Australia, so our trip was divided between a stay in Melbourne with her and my cousin, a trip to Cairns where we could snorkel on the Great Barrier Reef and visit the rainforest, and a few days in Fiji.Now, I'm sure that this trip sounds like heaven to most people, but, as a moody adolescent who was being forced to leave her boyfriend behind for two whole weeks, I was not so pleased by the time the trip came around. (They wouldn't even let me call him while we were gone. Can you imagine that sort of injustice/misunderstanding of the depths of our love? Sure, it would have cost the same amount as our hotel room to talk to him for five minutes, but is that really so much to ask? After all, they had only taken me halfway around the world for a once in a lifetime vacation, and I can so remember his last name looking back now. Geez...)And, if you think that little temper tantrum is bad, you should have seen my sisters and I when we arrived in Fiji to find out that there wasn't a single television set in the entire resort. (Wait, I take that back. There was one TV set. It was in the "auditorium" near the lobby, and if everyone in the hotel could reach a consensus by open voting, we could watch "Priscilla Queen of the Desert" or "Gallipoli" after dinner.)Well, the point is that on our way back from Fiji, we had a really long layover in L.A., so I decided to pick up a book in the airport store. (Little word of advice: Do not read "Kiss the Girls," about a psycho killing duo in the Duke woods, two weeks before going to live in a dorm room adjacent to said woods. That was one of many poor decisions during my late teens.)While I was standing in line to pay for the book that would be the stuff of my nightmares through November, Juliette Lewis got in line behind me.She is very short and helped convince me of the wonders that are stylists, makeup artists, and airbrushed photos.Sorry, Juliette. I really should be thanking you. I dread to think where my self-esteem would be without that moment of "Hollywood Reality."

The Long Awaited Tale

When I was in high school, they opened an amusement park in Birmingham. It was part of Birmingham's continuing "we're just as good as, if not better than, Atlanta" program and, in another strong pr move, the park was called "Visionland" because it represented the dream of a bigger and better Birmingham.It almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?Yes, Visionland was filled with wonders that it can be hard to find in your traditional amusement park. Sure, there was a log ride and a roller coaster, but there was only one of each of them. The other twelve or so rides in the park were kind of "filler." It was much more the kind of stuff you'd find at the state fair. I think you know what I'm talking about - the "haunted house" that involves a cart on a squeaky track and is only really scary because you never know if you'll get to see your parents again once the cart goes behind the beaded veil where you might or might not be abducted by a transient and forced to do awful, illegal child labor jobs on the really tall parts of the Ferris wheel while an obese chain smoker holds a diet of stale peanuts over your head or the "centrifuge" that kind of makes you want to vomit and most definitely keeps your mouth plastered to the side of your face long enough for uncontrollable drool to crystallize along your jaw line.I won't even bore you with the details of "Prospect Street" and "The Hopeful Kids Gang."Also, in another turn that I've never fully understood, Visionland was mostly staffed by visiting students from Iceland and other very cold, very dark European nations. It's rather strange to wander through a park and notice that the name tags on the staff either say, "Hi, I'm Emily from Gardendale" or "Hi, I'm Lars from Reykjavik." I can only imagine that something went very wrong in state/international politics and there's large debt and/or lax visa standards at stake.Anyway, when the amusement park opened, my friend got us advance tickets so we could go to the park the night before it opened, and, of course, we invited boys along.Now, as a Southern teenage girl, I always had high hopes for "the amusement park date." It probably had to do with the fact that I grew up on too much Lifetime and "General Hospital," but I couldn't help being a little giddy about the possibility of hand holding, snuggling up next to one another on the roller coaster, him winning me a stuffed animal while I ate cotton candy in an oh-so-delicate-and-playful way...Well, about the only part of that fantasy that happened was the hand holding (but, later, after we had left Visionland and there were fewer people to see us/cause him infinite embarrassment), but, as we were leaving the park, I kind of fell onto Richard Townsend.(As we all know, I'm just a klutz. I tripped on the sidewalk, and Robert Townsend helped me catch myself. At the time, it probably would have been best to ask why my boyfriend didn't bother to help me out, and maybe I could have salvaged the next three years of my dating life, but, bygones...)I said hi. (After all, I had seen "Meteor Man" and was a regular viewer of "The Parent 'Hood.") He said hi back.After he walked away, I looked at my friends and said, "Wow, that was Robert Townsend."That is also the moment when all of my friends just stared at me before Leah finally said, "Yeah...We don't know who that is," and we all went on with our lives.My brushes with fame really are quite amazing, aren't they?

In case no one noticed, Bob Barker announced his retirement from "The Price is Right" today.I think meeting a man named Laurel might have had something to do with it. I suppose after that, he really had seen it all.

What?!?!

Now, I was going to keep quiet today. I really was. But then something truly mind-boggling occurred, and I had to share it with the world. (And, by the "world," I obviously mean my three friends and an occasional lost internet tourist who was hoping for the other writing Laurel Mills who is a published poet and professor. Yeah - I don' t know what the big deal about her is either.)Anyway, I was watching "The Price is Right" (because that's what I put on the TV when it's 10:00 in the morning and I'm working from home and possibly also because I really am 65 years old on the inside) when, to my excitement, they called a "Laurel" out from the audience to contestant's row.And, of course, because of all the connotations I have with my name (please reference previous post "A Rose is a Rose" for further explanation), I was scanning the crowd for a lovely, rosy-cheeked lady. And, even allowing for the possibility of a scowling, filled-with-rage lady, I was still, above all else, expecting a lady.So, imagine my surprise when a fifty-year-old Asian man bounded out of his seat.Yep, the "Laurel" in question was a middle-aged man. And, before you ask, yes, he spelled his name exactly the same way I do. Hearing Bob Barker say my name over and over again to a dude was just too upsetting.I think I'm having identity issues.And, on a completely unrelated note, I always thought the word "diabetes" was pronounced die-a-bee-tees. Why, then, does Wilford Brimley continually say die-a-bet-ease? Have I been wrong all these years?I don't know whether or not I can stand pronunciation and identity issues all in the same day. It's a bit much.

Now, I know that I promised a story about Robert Townsend today, but, truth be told, I have movers coming, and I'm not quite ready for them.Check in tomorrow, and I'll be back to my old tricks again.

Seeing Stars

Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I had a brief brush with fame.When I was 17, like most everyone else, I had to go on the requisite "college trips." I'm sure we all remember the pain that that was - praying that your parents wouldn't ask stupid questions on the tour (you know, all of those ridiculous notions like, "is there a lot of drinking on the weekends?," "is it safe here?," "where are the bathrooms?"), feeling so embarrassed because all of the "adult" college kids are staring at you with your parents (because the only thing college kids care about is what the high schoolers touring their campus are doing), and then yelling at your mom not to stand too close to you in the bookstore while you pick up the requisite super cool college tee that you will casually wear to soccer practice on Tuesday like you might have just spent the weekend in a freshman's dorm room sneaking beers and staring at the magnificence of fuzzy posters under a black light, even though you really stayed in a hotel and shushed your mother whenever she asked questions during "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer."Well, in the fall of my senior year, my dad and I headed up to Providence, Rhode Island for the Brown, Tufts, and Dartmouth tour. And, because my dad tends to be not only thrifty on fares, but also prefers not to miss too much work, I think we had to be at the Birmingham airport around 5:30 in the morning.Even in high school, when I actually had to be somewhere by 8:00 a.m., I was not a morning person. So, needless to say, 5:30 a.m. was tough - especially when I knew I was going to spend the whole day ducking my head in shame and hiding behind my bangs every time my father looked in the direction of a college kid.Then, as my father and I approached the counter, I noticed something very strange in the waiting area for our flight......And that strange apparition was Little Richard.Now, if you think that man's head looks big on television, you have no idea how surreal it seems in person and at 5:30 a.m. pre-caffeine. I also have to say that of all the famous and semi-famous people I thought I might meet one day, Little Richard was not on the list, nor had he ever crossed my mind beyond that moment when he showed up at Bo and Nora's wedding on "One Life to Live" and got Nora to overcome her cold feet and boogie down the aisle towards her man.Little Richard is actually from Alabama in case you're wondering about his presence in the Birmingham International Airport. (By the way, don't dwell to long on the "international" in that title. It's mainly for show.)Anyway, the story ends like this: I waved and smiled at him. He smiled back and said hello. Then a member of his entourage (yes, he still warrants an entourage, and a seemingly large one at that) gave me a book about God and a postcard-sized, autographed photo of Little Richard. We all got on the plane, and I promptly fell asleep.Yes, that's my encounter with celebrity in all its glory. Tomorrow, I might tell you the story of me and Robert Townsend, but most people probably need a day to google that name and realize that he is, indeed, someone who has been in movies and on TV.

Week in Review

This has been a trying week.First of all, Tom Cruise not only wants to steal my psychotropic drugs, but my thunder as well. It is hard enough to share my birthday with the largest football rivalry in the state. Do you know how many people leave town to watch the game so that many years my celebration turns into 3 people sitting around a table in a nearly empty bar? Sure, someone usually thinks to bring a party hat, but that hardly makes up for the disparity in the crowd.And, now, TomKat has decided to get married on my birthday. Not only are our guest lists totally going to overlap, but for the rest of my life, I'll have to know that, not only am I aging, but also, somewhere in a Scientology compound far, far away, there's a strange anniversary celebration going on that probably involves the following exchange: "I love you for allowing yourself to be brainwashed into a fake religion and actually thinking I'm not gay." "I love you, too. Now, where's that tea I'm always drinking that makes me happy on the inside and insures how much I love watching kids play soccer?"And, then, someone I care for deeply was viciously attacked.Why did you have to pick on Michael, Rush? Why? Other than what I am sure are your flagging ratings, why?I have to let you know that Michael J. Fox was my first love. I adored him as Alex P. Keaton on "Family Ties." I once saw Courtney Cox in the County Seat jeans store at our local mall, and I totally freaked out because she got to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen "Back to the Future." And, as a child, I even wanted to be able to hear dog whistles so that I would have something in common with "Teen Wolf." (Odd wish - I know.) When I played Barbies, my dolls were not interested in Ken, but rather someone named Michael.I was serious about our love.And, I cried when Michael J. Fox went public with his diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. I admire his strength and determination in a situation where a lot of people would succumb to self pity.So, Rush, you've made me mad before, but you've really gone too far this time. Your next beef with Michael, you come looking for me. Mama don't like it when you go after her babies.

A Day in the Life

Since we all know that no one starts out on the top (and that beggars can't exactly be choosers), I recently wrote a piece for "Midwestern* Lady" magazine. And, not only was I writing for a magazine with "Lady" in the title, but I was assigned a piece about cheese straws. (For those of you who aren't Southern, a cheese straw is like a spicy cheese cracker, but its shape is more tubular.)For some of you who are already thinking this, when I told a co-worker that I was going to freelance for "Midwestern Lady," she kind of cocked her head to the side and asked, "Have they met you?" When I answered no, she said that I "should probably keep it that way."Anyway, I got a contract and some info in the mail from "Midwestern Lady" prior to beginning the article. "Midwestern Lady" informed me that they did not have any of the contact info to interview the owners of the cheese straw company, but I could probably call the magazine "Midwestern Woman" which had recently featured an article on them, and ask for those details. The 500 word article from "Midwestern Woman" was photocopied and included in the mailing to help me with my 500 word article for "Midwestern Lady."So, not only was I writing for "Midwestern Lady" magazine, but "Midwestern Lady" was the poor man's version of "Midwestern Woman" and proved it by ripping off story ideas from them.That was a low moment - a moment in which I was so glad that I spent so much time in school earning bachelor's and master's degrees.But, rather than calling "Midwestern Woman" magazine, oh-so-resourceful-me used a crazy thing called the world wide web, and found a phone number for the cheese straw makers. What follows is a pretty accurate excerpt from the most awkward interview ever:Me: So, what is your favorite part about running the company?Cheese Straw Lady (CSL from here on out): Well, I guess that's doing something different every day. You know, I'm not always in the office. Sometimes I'm on sales calls. Sometimes I'm at food shows.Me: I guess you could say you like being your own boss? (Polite chuckle on my part to build a friendly rapport)CSL: Well, I don't really know about that. I've never actually had a boss because I started this business right after I graduated college, so I can't really say I know what it's like to have a boss versus being the boss...I don't think I can comment on that.My internal monologue: Thank you for your humorless response to what was supposed to be more a rhetorical question/summation of your answer.Me (Aloud this time and trying to move on quickly): And, what's the hardest part about running your own business? (I ask this in the hopes that there will be something to inspire all of the other women out there thinking about starting their own companies or taking a new idea and running with it.)CSL: Oh, that's definitely the Health Department. They have so many rules when you're starting a food business. I can't tell you how many times they came out to the bakery before we got off the ground. There were just so many regulations...My internal monologue again: And, if those aren't the insightful words of a savvy businesswoman, I don't know what are.Even though I didn't get a whole lot from my interview that I couldn't have learned from the company's website, I turned my article in.A few weeks after my deadline, I got a call from the editors of "Midwestern Lady" telling me that my piece might need a few more edits because it was a little bit "edgy" for their publication. I, for one, had no idea it was possible to be "edgy" when writing about cheese straws, but I guess I was wrong.I turns out that I had to remove the term "Bloody Mary" from the article because alcohol mentions are "frowned upon." Even though the editors agreed that it was "certainly true" that cheese straws were usually served with the old Bloody, they didn't want to "push the boundaries."But, I think what really got them is the last paragraph I used to try and spice things up a bit.Here's the original draft: "Of course, any true cheese straw fan has one burning question for the ladies of the bakery, "I could tell you, but I would have to kill you," Kelley jokes, referring to how they make those familiar squiggles on the cheese straws. "We would really hate for that secret to get out," she says.""Yeah," the editor said, "I know that it's a joke and all...and it's a great joke (don't worry - I know this is not true)...but I just don't think we should mention murder here. It might scare some people."Ah, yes, because I was obviously implying that the women of a small commercial bakery were willing to hunt you down like dogs in the street should anyone figure out the "big secret" of how to put a squiggle pattern on a cheese straw. I naively turned the tone of the piece from readers imagining a sweet, rotund woman baking at home to a hardened Mafia wife who chain smokes and spits on the street while glaring at small children.For shame. I guess I really should have known better.[* Names and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect professional relationships. After all, when it's dignity or rent money - I have to go with rent money.]