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.
Seriously?
The "Storm"
The other night, I was watching the local news. (Obviously only because I had to. The CBS Sunday night movie ran late, and I had nothing to do with myself while anxiously awaiting CSI: Weekends.) At least, when I do have to watch the local evening news, I prefer CBS to the other stations. (I'm not sure why this is since they all cover the same stories, but I think it's electric blue background. It seems like news could break at any minute, but also reminds me of the serenity I find at Sea World staring at the orcas.)Well, they seemed to be trying out a new weather girl. I assume the weekend weather spot is not nearly as cutthroat as the weekday prime time spot and offers less embarrassment should the rookie fall on her face.Also, the weather girl seemed quite nervous and not sure of herself when she turned to hit the various camera marks, and her gestures were a little stiff.It wasn't the easiest thing to watch, but I wanted her to pull through.Unfortunately, then what I can only imagine to be a meteorological worst nightmare occurred - as new weather girl stood in front of the green screen sweeping her hands to show storm fronts and lifting her arms to the sky to denote the temperatures up north, there was no weather map behind her.Yep, NO MAP!It must be how people on the "Antique Roadshow" feel when they find out Grandma's broach came from K-Mart and not Tiffany's, or how Jeff Bridges felt when he realized that he had indeed made the movie "Stick It" and not just imagined the whole thing during his extended "research" for "The Big Lebowski."Rather than showing the viewing audience at home how to interpret those crazy sun symbols versus the clouds dropping blue pellets, our new weather girl was stiffly sweeping across the earlier screen that showed the 7 day forecast. (Can you even imagine?!?!)If you think those gestures look silly under normal circumstances, you can picture how this played itself out.Plus, you would hope someone in the control room would figure this out. But, whether it was past the tech's bedtime or he was sipping Jameson in the booth, no one fixed the problem.New weather girl went on and on, as I cringed. I can't stand being embarrassed for someone. It's such an unpleasant emotion.But, then I consoled myself with the image of cute new weather girl causing heads to roll when she saw the tape of herself. I imagine lots of screaming and makeup throwing. I see bright, happy weather girl turning dark and scary - just like the sudden weather phenomena she is supposed to warn us about.After all, if you spent all that time learning how to Doppler radar, and someone screwed up your big break, wouldn't you be full of rage?
At the Polls
There are primaries in Alabama today. I will be voting in the Republican one because I want to cast a vote against Roy Moore. So, I will actually be voting for current governor, Bob Riley.I actually kind of like old Bob. He went against his party to introduce an initiative that would really help Alabama schools, and, in general, he seems pretty moderate which is all I can really ask for these days.Anyway, I was all good with this decision until I saw one of his campaign commercials the other night. Now, in said commercial, Bob Riley's team reminded voters how many jobs Riley had brought to the state, what a great guy he was, blah blah blah. Then, they said, and I'm quoting loosely here, that Bob had reclaimed the state from the "liberals that ran it before."Now, I don't know how I could have missed this, but when exactly did liberals run the state of Alabama? Was it during all of that "segregation forever" talk? You know, back in the days when Southerners had their own branch of the Democratic party because they couldn't be Republicans (after all, they freed slaves), but they couldn't be Democrats because of their crazy, progressive ideas like ending "separate but equal"? Maybe it was when Alabama brought back chain gangs? Yes, chain gangs certainly seem like a liberal idea. Was it when that abortion ban was introduced? Or during the times our capital punishment programs were running so efficiently? What about those years they let George Wallace back into the governor's office even though he had disgraced and embarrassed the state?Seriously, when was Alabama run by liberals?!?! Don Siegelman doesn't count. After all, he's currently under indictment with Richard Scrushy. And, if he's a real liberal, well then I'm hoping Chad Michael Murray will finally get that Emmy nod he so richly deserves.Did those happen during those years I went away to college? Sure, the spring before I left I was still supposed to pray with the opposing soccer team on the field before a game, but I guess things really got crazy once I was gone. What was it like then? Did dry counties stop enforcing their laws? Were there regular gay pride parades? Did poor people actually get considered before legislation was drafted?The only answer I could come up with for this fanciful time when liberals were is charge was Military Reconstruction. That is, after all, when Southerners were forced to answer to Northerners. Sure, it was in the name of ending racially motivated violence and oppression, but, still, Northerners? Yankees even? It must have been tough.
I Get the Hint Now
Well, I'm not sure who I pissed off most. Maybe I shouldn't have dissed the Baptists. Or, I guess I could have left Homewood Jesus out of my blog. Maybe it's the old allet-bay uild-gay since I did end up missing my clean-up appointment Sunday morning. I don't know if it's one or all three of these entities, but I've apparently done something to anger the universe.Let's examine the last twenty-four hours:First, my car dies on Sunday afternoon. This leads to a frantic search for jumper cables followed by an extensive effort to get my car battery going again.Then, as I'm driving from my parent's house to my apartment, my phone stops working. I can't call in, call out, or text message. This is understandably inconvenient.So, Monday morning I wake up to set out for the Verizon store and the auto shop. At Verizon, I'm informed that I was simply dropped off the network for some reason or other. Apparently, this has nothing to do with anything I've done (like not paying my bill on time, etc.) but just happens sometimes. I find this particularly troublesome since the entire Verizon marketing campaign is built around the fact that the network is always with you, but I suppose we must file that as bygones. It's a good thing my self-esteem issues have improved over the last few years or beings inadvertently dropped off the largest cell phone network in the country, the one where you're always supposed to be "in," would really bother me.Anyway, then, as I'm leaving the Verizon store, someone slams into the back of my car pushing me into the car in front of me. Yes, someone with the vanity plate "ASMIL4U" hit me. (This struck me as particularly interesting as the tow truck loaded up her vehicle.)And, of course, when I try to start my car after this snafu, the battery is dead. The cop on the scene was very pleasant and tried to help me, but I explained that I had been on the way to the auto shop, and I think the not starting had more to do with phenomenally bad timing than the accident at hand.Now, as I was driving home from finally getting my battery fixed, I was thinking, "What else could happen to kick a girl when she's down?"And, that's when I discovered that it would not be kicking me when I was down, but a neighbor of mine acting like he was going to kick my dog.As I was walking Cassidy, she decided to run over and sniff someone. Now, I have her on her leash, so she's not actually going to get close to the guy or put paw prints on his incredibly chic Dockers (oh the horror!), but as she's moving towards him, he lifts up his back foot like he's going to kick her in the face. Luckily, because she is on her leash, she isn't close enough to get hurt, but I was appalled. Who does that? Who actually kicks dogs? Let alone dogs that are leashed and being walked by people who can see you?So, whatever I have done to offend the cosmos, I am sorry. I really am. Please, for the sake of me and my dog, stop the onslaught.
What Will I Think of Next?
I've decided to begin work on a new project. I think it's time to turn my creative skills towards a musical production loosely based on the life of Britney Spears.Only, my play will only have 1 pregnancy by K-Fed before he dies in a precipitous fall from the top of a Las Vegas casino while he's high on angel dust and unjustified "rapper" ego. Then, Justin Timberlake will re-enter the picture (obviously the first act will cover his innocent, young love for Britney and the time when both their careers seemed on track and they liked to wear coordinating denim outfits), comfort Britney, and rekindle their love leading to the grand finale ostentatious pop wedding in the last scene. (Think pink, pink, and more pink. As well as doves and air guitars.)My strange twisted love for Britney Spears is behind this project, but I am also fully supportive of any production that offers the chance for numerous dance-offs. Not since "West Side Story" and "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo," has the world seen a truly great dance-off. And, the story of Britney's life is rife with opportunities for them. Think about it. There's the dance-off between her and Justin after the break-up, potential K-Fed/Justin match-ups wherein K-Fed attempts break dancing only to fail miserably and show that he will never outshine JT, maybe even a show down between Britney and the reporter character who will represent the media influence in Britney's life (and echo back to a story-telling technique used in "Evita." After all, this play is not to be without an understanding of theater traditions and history.)I think this love was born long ago. After all, I might be one of the only people lucky enough to have seen a dance-off in real life. The summer after 5th grade, at the end of our summer camp talent show, Nicy and Leon Ware decided to have a brother/sister showdown. With only a boombox and stunned white kids trying to clap along to a beat, they danced the rest of our mosquito-filled night away. I can't say I remember the winner; I was just thrilled to see people with rhythm engaged in an activity I thought I would only by lucky enough to witness from afar on USA's "Dance Party" (which I watched every day).Anyway, the title of my currently in-development project is: "White Trash Fantasia."I don't know about you, but I smell a Tony in my future.