Please Don't Disturb the Natives
Well, as I have always suspected, I should never worry about running out of ways to embarrass myself in front of strangers.Yesterday afternoon there was a knock at my door. I found this odd because I don't really know anyone in Chicago, and the few people who have been invited to my humble abode have "real" jobs and don't usually have time for lengthy visits in the middle of the day. (At least, this is what they tell me whenever I make too long phone calls to share the idiocy I saw on "Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency" or what I learned from Dr. Phil about internet dating.) Plus, who of a relatively sane nature would take those stairs for any purpose, let alone in an attempt to sell me Cutco knives or talk about the lord?When I checked the peephole, I realized that one of my worst fears had come true. (By the use of "worst fear" I am obviously exaggerating since "fears" is a very long list that includes plane crashes, the dentist, tall places without adequate fencing and/or walls, and having to watch "Vanilla Sky" again.) A few weeks ago, a note was stuck in my door explaining that since my lease had not been renewed for the next year, the leasing company might be showing people around the apartment whenever they felt like it. And, yesterday was that demonstrative day.I yelled out "just a minute" so that I could take a few moments to pull a sweatshirt on and wipe some of the more obvious dirt off the floor.Unfortunately, I didn't really have time to change out of my pajamas, wipe the crusted food from the corners of my mouth (because I may have been eating over the sink when said knock occurred), turn off my Lifetime movie, make the bed (again with the semantics, "bed" is actually an exaggeration of air mattress), wash the dishes, get the clothes off the bathroom floor, or swiffer.All of which are tasks that are probably normally accomplished before 3:00 in the afternoon.And, when you add my very excited dog to the mix, you end up with the shortest apartment tour on record. Last time I checked, girls with pointy boots pulled over their skinny jeans just to check out apartments have higher expectations than my more "relaxed" standard of living.Thus: my living quarters + strangers on a tour = Laurel's sufficient embarrassment for the week. (And some have said that math isn't my strong suit...)(Also, as a side note, of the 20 second tour, I did catch the leasing guy saying, "What's really nice about this unit is the balcony." I can't speak to Chicago rental norms, but the last time I checked a small jutting out from the window does not a balcony make. If you can't even open a folding chair on it, it's not a balcony. If there's only room for a house plant, it's certainly not a balcony. And, putting sliding doors there instead of picture window isn't fooling anybody.)
Heat Wave
I thought it was hot in Alabama. I really did. And, I don't think that there are many people who would argue with me on the point of whether or not it is indeed hot in Alabama. After all, I believe our seasons are best organized as: winter (6 weeks), spring (3 weeks sure to be full of early tornadoes), summer (months and months on end), and football (could offer any combination of the previous 3).Therefore, I'm having a hard time believing how hot I am in Chicago. At the end of every day, I'm pretty sure that I smell. And, I find some rather unattractive spots in conspicuous areas on my shirts.And, while the heat is nasty, what really bothers me about this weather has nothing to do with physical discomfort or general stickiness - it's an issue of pride.After all, if growing up in Alabama has given me anything, shouldn't it be an ability to withstand heat? And, shouldn't I be able to brag about the fact that I can take all that summer has to offer with no real consequences? (Admittedly, the one time I did boast of my ability to handle heat and mocked my Northern friends during my freshman year at Duke, I ended up being treated by a student EMT for heat stroke at a football game while they were fine, but bygones.) For all the redneck jokes I have endured and all the questions about whether or not my parents are cousins, shouldn't I at least have some sort of raw physical edge when it gets unbearably hot? Where is evolution and acclimation when you need it?But, alas, I cannot stroll through the streets of Chicago unmarked by sweat or heat while those around me scurry for air-conditioned cover and wipe their brows.Because of this, I must accept that no will be admiring my remarkably fresh presence in the city. And, growing up in Alabama might just have given me a love of fried foods and knowledge of all the words to "Friends in Low Places."Oh well. I guess I'll take what I can get. At least I didn't grow up with 6 months of darkness or anything.
Mondays
Years ago, when I was living in an "up and coming neighborhood" in Washington, D.C., my friend, Susan, was the first of my Alabama compatriots to pay me a visit. My house was a brand new federal-style townhouse, but it was also the first part of the neighborhood to be built up, so the surroundings were less than ideal. (I was just a tad accustomed to seeing crime scene tape on a semi-regular basis by the time I moved out.)Susan insisted on taking the subway, and since the stop was only 1 block from my house, I assumed that everything would be fine. (As a side note, I can't get used to saying "the el." I still want to say "metro" every time I talk about the train in Chicago. Why in the world does every city have to call their public transportation something different? I think it's odd. But, I guess it could be worse - I could be referring to Marta.)Anyway, about an hour after we talked, Susan still hadn't knocked on my door. Truthfully, knowing Susan, this wasn't that big of a surprise, and I didn't think much of it. (I add 45 minutes to all of Susan's eta's.) My roommate and I went out on our balcony and waited.And, about thirty minutes later, I saw her. There was Susan - wandering, dazed and a bit tilted to one side, down the alley behind my house. I called out to her, ran around to bring her inside the house, and then asked why she was walking behind all of the houses rather than coming through the manicured courtyard to the front door.She turned her eyes to me in something that I would call a "look of death."Susan then explained that she was lucky to even be there. Apparently, in the 1 block from the metro station to my house, Susan had been accosted by a man who wanted to sell her a dead pigeon wrapped in newspaper (Susan offered him double his asking price not to make her take the pigeon), and had a discarded shoe chucked at the back of her head by a homeless man (he missed.)In short, she was not pleased and thought I should pack my things and move out with her that night. But, instead we went to a bar, and all was smoothed over. (This tends to happen once Susan and I find a bar.) And, now Susan and I like to reference that night whenever there's a need for an "it could be worse" comment.So, as you sit at your desk today, thinking that the whole work week is ahead of you, ask yourself this one little question, "Is there a dead pigeon?"And, if the answer is "no," keep your hope alive.If, for some very odd reason, your answer is "yes," you'll have to fall back on the nearly foolproof, "Is there a shoe that probably spent at least 2 weeks in a city gutter flying at my head?"
TV Nostalgia
Since I have recently become reacquainted with some of the shows I used to love, I decided to make a list of some of the old sitcom standards I used to absolutely eat up:1. The clueless character from a nutty townSure, not-so-bright or spacy characters are still found all over television (as in Joey from "Friends"), but they don't seem to come from strange towns with their own bizarre sets of norms and customs anymore. Remember Woody Boyd from Hanover, Indiana on "Cheers"? The place that once voted Woody the "smartest student"? And, of course, Rose Nylund from St. Olaf, Minnesota? Does anyone else remember the episode where Blanche discovers Rose's St. Olaf war bonds and wants to cash them in? Rose pleads with her not to do it because it will bankrupt the town, and just as Blanche shreds the bonds, Rose tells her that St. Olaf is so grateful to Blanche that they're going to put a statue of her in the town square with money from the $500,000 emergency statue fund. Pure comedy.2. The cross-over / spin offThe women of "Golden Girls" lived down the street from Dr. Harry Weston of "Empty Nest." Sophia even kept Dr. Weston's dog when he was away. And, then, the hospital where Dr. Weston worked became the setting of "Nurses" and at one point starred a recently divorced Loni Anderson. "Growing Pains" spawned "Just the Ten of Us" by introducing Coach Lubbock. (I used to make my friends play "Just the Ten of Us" all the time with each of us choosing a character from the 4 older girls, Connie, Wendy, Cindy, and Marie.) "Who's the Boss?" gave us a young Leah Remini who moved to New York for "Living Dolls." "Diff'rent Strokes" gave us "The Facts of Life." Not since a hunky carpenter named Jake went from building a platform over the pool for Jackie Taylor's wedding to Mel Silver to living in an apartment building called "Melrose Place" have we truly seen a great spin-off. (This seems to keep coming up, but I prefer my spin-offs cheesy. I leave "Frasier" off my list, and for completely separate reasons, I'm also leaving "Joey" untouched.)3. The over-sexed oneI guess that a product of the openness of the 90's means that we can no longer have the truly over-sexed character. Remember when female characters were expected to be virgins when they got married? Tootie on "The Facts of Life"? Denise from "The Cosby Show"? And, the spectrum allowed its opposite: Mona of "Who's the Boss?" (whose constant cracks about Angela being flat used to amuse me to no end), the indomitable Blanche Devereaux, and Sue Anne Nivens of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," among others.Anyway, I just wanted to take a little walk down memory lane. Every time I accidentally end up watching something like "Four Kings" or "Home Improvement," I can't help but wish for the good old days.
A Site Worth Checking Out
Having hit a writer's block of sorts, I thought I would let you all know about something I enjoy greatly, but you might not have heard of:You can actually buy the TLC-advertised "Life Lessons" figurines at the Discovery Channel online store. (Now, I realize that some of you may be like a very dear friend of mine who had to stop watching The Learning Channel because she was worried she would never have children of her own after watching women climb naked into kiddie pools of warm water while their friends watch them give birth bent over on all fours on "A Baby Story." This is thoroughly understandable, but I promise there is a reason to give TLC another chance.) The figurines look like so many collectibles you could find at Hallmark or Kirkland's, but include truisms like "Merlot and e-mail don't mix," "Dating is awkward but so is becoming the crazy cat lady," and "Nothing can ruin a career faster than an office party."Enjoy: www.tlc.com
A Brief Note to my Leasing Company
Dear DemingOne, LLC:Don't get me wrong; I truly appreciate all that you have done to improve the standard of living in my apartment building. (Especially the central air.) My large picture window gives me a lovely view of the condo building across the street, and Lord knows I love the cable. I imagine that it's not easy to take a building that was constructed sometime during the Depression and make it worthy of a four-figure rent in the new millennium.And, while I also enjoy my exposed brick and hardwood floors, I can't help but wonder if there might have been better uses for your renovation budget. Yes, it's true that flooring and better walls improve the aesthetic of a home. (Although, I will admit that I still don't understand the "hipster" quotient of providing exposed air ducts. The large silver tubes that run across my ceiling just seem a bit lazy - especially the one that still bears the price tag from the warehouse.) But, my apartment is pretty, so bygones.However, with all of the funds that you obviously had to go into the building (those washers and dryers are quite state of the art), I can't help but wonder about one tiny thing - why in the world didn't you think about an ELEVATOR? Seriously, elevators are great. Not only are there bright, big buttons that you can push, but they also offer this crazy element of convenience that people the world over tend to be incredibly grateful for. Has anyone ever asked to walk to the top of the Sears Tower? When you're showing potential renters around, do they commonly ask whether in lieu of a workout facility there might be an obstacle to their homestead? Has Grandma ever said that she needs to waste 30 more minutes before her stories are on so it would be just great to encounter a flight of stairs before going back home?I think the answer to all of these question is "no." (Unless, of course, we're talking about sadists. I can't speak for the sadists.)The other night when I came home from IKEA with my new Swedish furniture choices, I literally felt my heart beating out my chest after climbing the 4 stories to my apartment again and again. And, when I came back from Target with a new Swiffer Sweeper Vac, I again worried about a premature, full-on body collapse. And, those are the somewhat extreme examples that don't even go into the daily routine wherein my dog beats me up 2 flights of stairs because I simply don't think I can go on anymore.In short, I love elevators. I think most people do. And, if I were to bet on a way to really compete in Chicago's tough rental market, I'd scratch the "cool" decorating for a well-run metal box that goes from floor to floor.Your truly,Laurel MillsP.S. Please don't take away my cable because I dared to speak my mind. If nothing else, my silence can be bought for a song (and by "a song," I mean cable.) Just keep me posted.
Summer in the City
Last week, I finally found my sunglasses. I’m still not sure how I lost them, since I was wearing them for 12 hours on the drive up to Chicago and then had them on my head for another 6 hours afterwards, but I did. I lost my sunglasses, which are more like an extension of my face, in an apartment that has nothing more than my clothes, some toiletries, and an air mattress.I’m special that way.Anyway, I was so glad to have my sunglasses back, because without them I was wandering around the city of Chicago without my veil of anonymity.As I explained to my friend, Sarah, I was also really excited because without my sunglasses, I felt like I had to smile at everyone I saw on the street.Sarah kindly shook her head and laughed at me, because, as she said, "People don’t do that in the city."I guess even Southern hospitality has its limits.However, what I’m more embarrassed about is that it’s not just that I felt like I had to smile at people on the street. You see, something about having that awkward moment of eye contact and smiling on the street causes me to say "hey" or "how are you doing" when in fact I don’t really want to engage this stranger in conversation, so it really isn’t an out loud "hello" but more of an under-my-breath, I might be schizophrenic or a panhandler kind of greeting.So, in addition to talking to myself on the street, I have also probably given my neighbors the impression that I am either mentally ill or in dire need of their spare change.Again, I guess I’m really just special that way.
"Borrowing" the Internet
As soon as I got my laptop, I immediately turned on the computer and started figuring out which wireless networks I could access from my neighbors without a password.One of the aspects I enjoy most about being able to pick up on other wireless networks is seeing what names people give their internet link.For being in the Midwest, most of mine were to be expected - Illini2003, Cubs are Number 1. There were even some that must be first or last names - Thompson, Fayette.But, my favorite by far is the one I least expected - "Lauren is a Whore."Now, I can only imagine that this is the work of an extremely embittered ex. Which, actually makes we wonder why the network is password protected. If I were that open about my animosity, I'd make my internet open to anyone and everyone. After all, isn't it better to get back at an ex if everyone knows about it? Wouldn't you like for strangers to sit around saying, "I just love my internet access. I use 'Lauren is a Whore' all the time."Plus, the double entendre would probably be good for a few laughs, especially during those times when you're tempted to drink wine, look at old pictures, and pretend that having James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" as your song was romantic and unique.At least, I actually sort of hope this is the work of an embittered ex. Otherwise, there might be a not-so-subtle call girl down the hall.
A Trip to Schaumburg, Illinois
Yesterday, in an effort to furnish my rather sparse apartment, I took a trip to the mecca of cheap furniture, IKEA. For those of you who don't know, IKEA is a large, Sweden-based company that specializes in furniture you assemble yourself at bargain basement prices.And, being based in Sweden, all of the furniture has really fun foreign names. Going through my purse this morning, I realized that at some point yesterday I was interested in Flarke, Muddus, Sultan Talliden, Forby, Sultan Jovik, and Lack. (Just making that list makes me want to talk to myself in a voice like the one Rose's cousin from St. Olaf, Hans, used when he began infatuated with Blanche on an episode of the "Golden Girls.") And, if only I had mastered how to get an umlaut symbol on blogger, the list would be so much more accurate.There's even a cafeteria in IKEA, so that if you get hungry in the middle of your shopping (which you will, the store is HUGE), you can stop for a snack of meatballs or lingonberry mousse - again, at bargain prices. $2.88 for a full crepe breakfast? Who could say no to that? For the deal, if not for the actual taste of the food...Personally, I have to hold myself back when I get near the vasen because it's hard for me to turn down anything that costs $1.98, even when that means I end up with a cartful of oddly shaped vases that I will never use. (The last time I got flowers and might actually need a vase? I'd rather not dwell on it.)Most of the time, I love IKEA. I really do.Now, I had a momentary upset when I realized that the large chair I wanted seemed to add up to a lot more in actuality than it seemed like it would on the website. Chair frame - $40. Chair cover - $29. I'm still ok at this point. It's when I realized that they wanted you to put a $120 mattress on a $40 chair frame that I felt like I was being duped. Who in the world would pay 3 times the amount of the chair frame for the padding that goes on said frame? And, who would spend that much at IKEA of all places? Not this savvy shopper. I found the cheap mattress that was rolled and packed without air so that it could travel easily and all was well. (Seriously, I doubted those air vac systems for storage until I unrolled my mattress. Who knew what a difference air could make? I mean, other than the air we need to live and breathe and all.) I got out of there with a big chair that can also be a spare twin bed for far less than the nearly $200 floor model.Leaving the store, I felt good. But, at home, I remembered the rub that IKEA can be.After getting everything in the car, and out of the car, and up four flights of stairs, I discovered a small problem. One of the stools I had bought had no hardware with it. No screws. No bolts. No nothing. I have no way to construct this stool.Now, of course, I can call IKEA and have them ship me the parts, but that will take time. And, there is nothing practical about driving two hours round trip for the screws that go to a $4.99 stool. I know the gas would cost more than the stool, but it still doesn't stop me from being angry about the unusable plastic circle and steel legs I now own. And, it made me think back on the chest of drawers I have from IKEA where the top two drawers don't have backs because they were missing from the box.Ugh. I guess you get what you pay for.As a side note, whenever I pass the food section at IKEA, I think about the full-on Swedish gift shop inside the store. And, then I wonder if anyone has ever lied about going to Europe only to bring their co-workers foodstuffs from IKEA after being out of the office for a week. "Chocolate for you, Melinda, my favorite HR rep. You just wouldn't believe how clean it is in Sweden. And, the lingonberries! To die for."
The Big Decisions
Well, now that I have cable it seems that the wonders never cease. Law & Order all the time? Of course, sign me up. Movies in the daytime? Yes, please. Strangers baring their souls for fifteen minutes of fame? How did I live without this? (Really - that's an actual question and not meant to be rhetorical. What did I do before? Read? Come on. What was I thinking?)Anyway, having cable has allowed me to re-enter the world of movies that I've seen but had almost forgotten how great they are - "The Wedding Singer," "A Mighty Wind," "The Shawshank Redemption"...(Does Ted Turner even take a breath between the end of that film and making the phone call that puts it back on the programming schedule?)And, hence, the other day I stumbled on a movie that I have seen, but don't actually love love - "The Matrix."Now, while it might not be cool to admit it, I love Keanu Reeves. I have thought he was adorable ever since "Parenthood," and "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" still makes me laugh out loud. Admittedly, maybe it doesn't require too much "acting" per say for Keanu to play stoned or generally unsmart teens, but I like him. I just do. I'm not going to defend it anymore. For this reason, I saw "The Matrix" in the theater.But, I never saw any of the other Matrix movies. And, I think my problem comes down to one relatively simple issue - there is no way in hell I would have taken the red pill.Sure, I'm not a risk taker. And, I'm probably not the person you want with you on a wildlife safari/mountain trek/run to the gas station after dark. I'll let you know right here and now - if there's trouble, it's every man for himself. And by "himself," I mean "me." I suggest you don't block my nearest exit.Therefore, I have no idea what would be compelling enough for me to give up my world of celebrity gossip, truffles, and new-found cable. (I'm thinking about getting a body pillow too. After that, I may not leave my house on the weekends.) And, our hero gives it all up for the "truth"? Now, what the hell is that about? The last time I checked few people actually liked the truth. I couldn't love "US Weekly" like I do if I was overly invested in truth. Nor could I continue to enjoy my aforementioned truffles while pretending that my jeans don't always fit the way they used too if brazen honesty was a priority. You know those people who brag about the fact that they "always tell it like it is"? Those people don't have friends. You just think they do because casting directors know they make for great reality tv.The truth has got to be overrated. (If you still don't believe me, call an ex and ask for the "real" answers. But, I guess I should apologize in advance - it won't be a pleasant conversation.)And the "Matrix" kind of truth is especially bad. It's waking up in your own placenta-like, gooey sac to unplug the back of your freshly shaved head from an overarching evil computer system before breaking free of a pod and leaping into space.Just to scratch the surface of why this would suck, I have spent two years growing out my hair. Even without the amniotic fluids, learning that I had no hair at all would be too much for me.In short, no thank you.No matter how much I like the action of the movie and Keanu's lovely presence, I can never get over that. I just don't know how it can be worth it. Did you see the sweater Neo had to wear on the strange space craft while he fought the all-encompassing forces of evil? And again - those fluids...Should I ever encounter a Lawrence Fishburne-esque revolutionary and bearer of great knowledge, my reply will be simple, "Blue pill, please. Nice to have met you."I suggest you do the same.
Downtown Doggie: Part 1
s we all know, or, at least, as we all should know, extreme specialty shops are usually run by crazies. (Now, as much as the term "crazy" get a negative connotation, this is not meant to be offensive. After all, most of us are "crazies" at some point in time. Speak ill of Scott Bakula? Meet Laurel’s wrath. Deny the overarching socio-political importance of Bruce Willis’ film choices? I breathe fire. I could probably open a store devoted entirely to yarn and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" memorabilia, but that wouldn’t exactly make me normal. And, thus, you can pretty much guarantee that anyone willing to use 1,000 square feet solely for porcelain doll heads and antique figurines gives each item a voice at closing time and reenacts various scenes from the golden age of television in the dark, dialogues between Mary Tyler Moore and Ed Asner being a ready favorite.)So, as I was wandering in Chicago, attempting to find my way and learn the streets, I stumbled upon my first designer dog boutique. Projecting/fearing that Cassidy is unhappy with my decision to uproot her from Southern suburban existence for life in a 4th floor walk-up with a noisy nearby train, I went inside in search of a rawhide bribe.And, that’s when I encountered your requisite crazies. After all, I should also mention that this was around 3:00 in the afternoon, and, again, the "normals" should be at work.Well, it seems that a lost dog had wandered near the vicinity of the dog boutique and quickly been abducted into the world of the animal-loving, concerned pet store owner and friends.This is when I learned that it takes 5 grown women to determine what to do with a lost dog. The conversation inside went something like this:"The tail curls a bit like a poodle mix.""That’s true. But I definitely thought ‘samoyed’ when I looked at her.""Wait...Did anyone check to see if it is a her or a him?""The hair seems matted. I don’t think it’s well groomed.""Try putting a collar on it. That way it can’t run away.""It seems to take to the collar. I think that means it’s a house dog and not a stray.""I bet the fireworks from 4th of July scared it. That’s probably why it started running away.""Should we make posters? I could run to Kinko’s right now.""I don’t know. Maybe we should look for posters. Or ads. If it is a house dog, someone is looking for it.""I’m going to call the police.""Do the police handle lost dogs?""Let’s give it treats.""No, not treats. It looks too hungry for that.""I think it’s malnourished. It could have been wandering for days.""Soft food or hard food?""Always soft food. I think something with lamb. Most dogs aren’t allergic to lamb. It’s different from chicken that way.""Have the police picked up?""Should we be calling the SPCA instead?""Oh, look...It’s eating so well. I guess it hasn’t been too traumatized. That alleviates a lot of my fears.""Does anyone else think the dog’s part golden retriever?"And on, and on, and on...I had to leave with my $2 sausage treat before they recruited me for the task force.And, to think that the time I found a lost dog, I brought it to my apartment and then called the number I saw on the flyer with the dog’s picture the next day.There was so much more I should have considered. I guess I’m not as much of a dog person as I thought I was. (Although, I do think this little experience was a good cautionary tale before I put too much time into that yarn/vampire slaying enterprise.)
Downtown Doggie: Part 2
Laurel Returns to her Daily Blogging
I am again apologizing for my lack of blogs, but today is the glorious day that all ends.
You see, yesterday afternoon, after a good half hour running through the rain, a train, a bus, another walk in the rain, almost crying in front of the UPS guy because he wanted to see a picture id with my local address which I obviously don’t have because I just moved and then his decision to take pity on me, another walk, twenty minutes waiting in the rain for a packed bus, standing literally in the middle of a homeless man arguing with the bus driver, a train, and another rainy walk to my apartment - I was reunited with my laptop.
And, it’s been all that I dreamed it would be.
I no longer have to worry that I will deplete my bank account solely based on the internet charges from Kinko’s. My I-Tunes and I are back together, and there’s all the Kelly Clarkson a girl could ever want. I even have Free Cell to challenge my brain and keep me company during my bouts of insomnia.
Yes, it has been a glorious day indeed.
Big News
It's wonderful and glorious and marvelous and overwhelming all at the same time...and it's not the city of Chicago.You see, ladies and gentleman, for the first time in over a year and a half, (and I feel like I must knock on wood, spin around three times while naming the 12 apostles, and possibly collect a virgin pigeon's blood as I say this so as not to spoil my good fortune), I have cable.That's right - CABLE TELEVISION!Now, I understand that a lot of people have moved to digital cable, TiVo, and video ipods in the last few years, so I might seem a bit behind. But, truly, for me, this is incredible."Golden Girls" I missed you so. When Rose wrote her letter about nuclear war to Gorbachev this morning and the Russian leader wants to visit her because he assumes she is a child and not a senior citizen, I was ecstatic. When I had a bout of insomnia yesterday and woke up at 6 a.m., I had my choice of "Angel," VH1, and "Designing Women" to choose from. That's right - I was not forced to watch a local news morning show or interviews with "the amateur chef of the week" (which usually makes the frustration of my insomnia MUCH worse, rather than better). And, last night I watched "Dicky Roberts...Child Star" after 10 p.m. when I usually sit through late night talk shows. (As for the movie choice, we all know that when you find a movie on cable with recognizable stars, it's fair game. Paying to rent or see in the theater is when taste is really called into question. And, speaking of taste, we already know I have none.)But, I also learned that so much has changed since I had cable. To go from watching 4 channels to having over 70 is a bit much. People have reality shows, and I have no idea who they are?!?!For instance, I tuned into something on BET. (Already out of my element as the whitest person in America. Monday night some red-headed college kid leaned out of his cab to yell "Hey Lady, holler at your man!" to me. I, understandably, was confused and not entirely sure of what he was saying. Would "get out of my grill" have been an appropriate response? What about "fo' shizznot"? I just don't know. It was odd.) Well, it seemed to be a reality show wherein someone was going to get a lamborghini, but I had no idea who the people were, and not even their identifying labels helped me out. DMX, I recognized. Keyshia Cole, I did not.Then, I flipped around some more and learned that there are way too many shows about struggling women. "Starting Over" is too much. Certainly anything after that goes too far. I thought the canceling of "Tuesday Night Book Club" recognized this trend, but cable seems to offer a wealth of others.And, Lifetime. My dear, sweet Lifetime. Its next movies are about a teenage girl accused of being a witch and female road rage. I like my murder plots and my cheating, abusive spouses. All of these new themes seem just a bit "outside the box." And, whoever thought that Lifetime would be "outside the box"?However, I did learn that I like "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." There's something about 2 spoiled kids buying crack rock in a Range Rover so that they can get on welfare as a non-working vacation before he takes the MCAT and she tries acting in New York that gets me every time.I hope everyone has a great weekend! I'm going to try and leave my apartment even with these fantastic new developments. I can't even begin to imagine what else is out there...
Pacific White-Sided Dolphins and Me
Monday afternoon, I took a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in downtown Chicago.
Other than the penguins, one of the biggest attractions at the aquarium is the dolphin show. After all, who doesn't love a good dolphin?And, because most people do love dolphins, it's quite a popular exhibition. My friends and I barely got seats, and once we did, we still had to wait about half an hour for the show to start. So, full of excitement and animal kingdom wonder, I waited for the big event.
Unfortunately, the show was hosted by Alison*, who, clad in her Shedd Aquarium-issued polo shirt and mom khakis, and equipped with a wireless microphone over the ear, leads the audience on the journey into the "mysterious" world of dolphins. (From here on out, all words placed in quotation marks will be Alison's choices and not mine.)
Even though we never actually met and Alison was never less than 20 feet from me -- we did not get along.She opened the show with an intro she must have stolen from an old show on the Discovery Channel, but embellished with what I assume to be a background in amateur theater. (I will say this for her -- someone taught her to enunciate and someone taught her sweeping hand motions.)
Personally, I don't think anyone should be as confident as Alison was when she asked overdone rhetorical questions like "What about dolphins is fact [long pause] and what is fiction? [second long pause complete with meaningful sweeping glance over the audience] And, how do we separate the myth [pause] from the reality?"
Also, I don't think Alison fell into her work. I'm pretty sure it was a life-long dream to lead the aquarium show, and thinking of this made me feel like I did when I learned that being a character at period attractions like colonial Williamsburg and The American Village in Montevallo, Alabama is a coveted job and not something forced upon people by some sort of over-arching, all-powerful historical monopoly or the work of a particularly creative judge in the penal system.
Some people really want to wear pantaloons, use hybrid accents, and explain the process behind shoeing a horse.But, that doesn't mean I get these people.
Anyway, here was one of the "myths" about dolphins:"Some people say that dolphins are aliens." Now, who thinks that is a reality?"
Oh, my poor, disturbed Alison ...Here's my question: Who are these people that say dolphins are from outer space?!?! Seriously, when have you ever met someone in a rational and non-institutionalized setting who claimed to believe that dolphins were alien creatures? Who the hell does Alison hang out with that she hears this? And, if she has never heard it ,but only got her poorly syndicated Jonathan Frakes hosted Fact or Fiction confused with something from the history channel, what makes her think it is reasonable to repeat it as part of an educational discussion on sea creatures?
I don't get Alison either.
*Names have been changed because I'm insecure and non-confrontational.
Kentucky - What Gives?
Now, I knew that Kentucky was famous for bourbon. But, I guess I didn't really consider that alcohol has one very obvious corollary until I drove through the state on Saturday.And, of course, that natural partner of booze is pornography. Or, at least, that is what I was led to believe as my father and I drove past the 3rd Adult Superstore in an hour.Here are some of the questions I have:1. Wal-Mart as a superstore makes sense to me. After all, they have to run the gamut from automotive supplies to personal hygiene products to home decor. Does pornography really require a superstore? I mean, come on - that's just a whole lot of porn. If anyone makes it through that superstore or is actually on the "new releases" postcard update, I think it's time to call in the addiction experts. Also, even if one adult superstore is necessary to satisfy every perversion/fetish in the book, why are there three is such a small geographic area? This leads me to my next question...2. Is it the competitive pricing that keeps three stores open? (And, if so, does anyone price check their porn? Isn't pulling "Buffy the Vampire Layer" off the shelf enough of an embarrassment the first time? Would anyone really have it scanned, decide that was too much, and hop in the car to drive to another adult shop for the same drill? Would this even be feasible as a scenario? And, secondly, who has that much time?) Was there a fallout between the owner and a former employee who decided to strike out on his own? Are there porn wars over content and quality?3. These porn stores were open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. How many bodies does the guy who works the graveyard shift at the 24 hour adult superstore have buried in the backyard of the home I'm sure he still shares with his mom at 40? Does he love or hate his job? (For the sake of all that is good and decent in the world, I sure hope he doesn't love the gig.) Is there such a thing as a "porn emergency" that would require this kind of vigilance and constant access? Who has to have porn at 4 a.m.? (Again, if the answer to the first question is "yes" and the answer to the second is, "Well, there was this one time in college...", I don't want to know about it. Those are the kinds of secrets that sometimes even death beds aren't the right time for.) 4. The porn store is the only attraction at the exit. If you're pulling off, everybody knows what it's for. Returning to the issue of shame, don't most people want to buy their porn in private? Do people really not care that everyone knows where they're going, even if those people are strangers? (Personally, sometimes I care more about the strangers than the opinions of friends and family.) Do I need to take a lesson (and hopefully this is the only lesson that can be garnered from the adult superstore patrons) in self-esteem and living my own life from this?5. And finally, how many divorces have been caused by wives out for a weekend away with the girls and driving by the adult superstore on their way back into town? After all, the parking lot is RIGHT ON THE HIGHWAY!?!? There's no missing that one. You would think that they would have at least built the lot on the back of the store, or tried for a garage effect. How many marital fist fights have our porn workers had to break up over the years?Oh well, other than Dinosaur World, I have to say that porn superstores were the most interesting thing to come out of the drive. (I typed "exciting" at first, but all of this talk of porn made me second think my word choice. I don't want those of you with dirty minds getting ahead of themselves.)Anyway, thanks for reading. Tomorrow: Alison of the dolphin show at Shedd Aquarium and why we will never be friends.
Happy 4th!
I apologize for not posting as much this week, but I've been swamped.As of tomorrow (Friday, July 1), I will be in Chicago, Illinois for the rest of the summer. So, with packing and getting ready for my move, life has been a little hectic.I hope everyone enjoys their weekend, and please come back next week as Cassidy and I relay all of our tales about getting adjusted to the big city!
Laurel as Stage Mom
Because I am somewhat unhealthily obsessed with my dog (hey- you try being single and living alone without having some attachment issues), I decided to enter Cassidy in Birmingham Magazine's cutest pet contest.Now, there were 2 options for entry. One was to send in a picture with a $25 check that would be donated to Hand-in-Paw, a nonprofit that conducts therapy using animals. The other was to actually go to Vulcan Park, have your dog's picture taken, and, for a slightly larger fee of $35, have a copy of your dog's picture superimposed on the cover of Birmingham Magazine in addition to the Hand-in-Paw donation, win or lose.Obviously, I chose the latter.So, I took Cassidy to the park on the designated Saturday morning and waited in line to have her picture taken.When it was our turn, Cassidy had to sit on an elevated platform with a sheet thrown over it. And, since, the sheet tended to slide around, Cassidy wasn't too pleased. (Think when your dog tries to get its bearings in a moving car - maybe "not pleased" isn't the right phrase, but uncomfortable/nervous is.) It wasn't the easiest to get a picture, but when the woman asked if the photographer was done, he replied, "Oh yeah. I've got a couple of cute ones."Notice he said "a couple," which implies not one but two decent shots. He also specifically said that they were "cute."Since the printer broke during the course of the morning, I also had to wait 2 weeks to receive my picture in the mail. And, as sick as it may be, I could not wait to get my faux Birmingham Magazine cover.A couple of days after the 2 weeks had passed, I got a call from Birmingham Magazine asking me to confirm my address for shipping, which I did.And, while I was on the line with the woman from Birmingham magazine, she specifically said, "I have your photo right here and it's cute."Again, I am promised that my picture is "cute."However, when it arrives, it is the farthest thing from "cute" that I can imagine. My dogs eyes are half open, her neck is all scrunched up so that she actually looks overweight (for those of you who don't know, next to a greyhound, my dog is about the most lithe creature you'll ever see), and her leash can be seen and cuts across her body in a way that makes her look pained.In addition to all this, it's a 4x6 photo. Now, I don't know about you, but when I pay for a mock-up magazine cover, I expect the picture to be closer to the size of an actual magazine. I expect an 8x10 for the extra dough I shelled out.Also, I wouldn't be nearly as bothered by the quality of the photo if I hadn't been told repeatedly that it was a "cute" picture. All I'm saying is don't make promises you can't deliver on. Or, as a friend of mine used to say, don't piss into the wind and tell me it's raining. If you say "cute," you better mean "cute." And, there is no way, despite whatever varying degrees of subjectivity exist in human nature that my dog picture can be considered cute.I will post the picture shortly for confirmation. After all, there's nothing else I can do with it. And, I'm sure if Cassidy could talk, she would ask me to cut her out of the photo as any self-respecting woman knows to destroy less than flattering images of themselves.(P.S. My comments are in no way meant to reflect any negative feelings towards Hand-in-Paw; I think they're great. I simply prefer more honesty from those photographing my dog.)
