You've Really Got to Think About who that Babysitter Is

This past Friday, I went to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate my baby cousin's birthday. Chuck E. Cheese was pretty much as I remembered it - screaming children, loud bells and whistles, the ever present smell of pizza, and a wandering mascot. But, there were 3 major differences from the play land I knew as a child:1. There is no more animatronic band. Yep, it seems that the "Showbiz Players" (or whatever they were called) have disappeared. There is no cuddly bear, no mouse cheerleader, no tambourine. Instead, there's just one large Chuck E. Cheese who occasionally moves about. And, even though the logical part of me knows that I was terrified of the animatronic band and all of its mechanical gyrations, I still missed it. (Although this probably comes as no surprise to anyone, many aspects of Chuck E. Cheese scared me as a child. I was also nervous about the ball pit. I was convinced that there either was no bottom or that it was like getting into the deep end of the pool, and I would somehow end up drowning in the ball pit, and they would find my poor little body tucked just beneath the surface with a large red plastic ball trapped in my still open, I-was-trying-to-scream mouth. Needless to say, that was not how I wanted to go.) Plus, with no animatronic band, there is more time to broadcast poorly done music videos starring struggling character actors as furry creatures, and I fully believe the band is the lesser of those 2 evils.2. It seems a whole lot easier to earn tickets. Now, it may be that it was always pretty simple to win tickets, but because I was a kid it seemed really hard. Sure, that could be the explanation. (And, sure, my trouble with tickets could have had a lot to do with my lack of coordination and fear of many games...) But, based on how many 6 year olds I saw wandering around with their hands full of big prizes, I think they've just made the games easier. I, for one, am disappointed. We've got to remember to challenge our children. And, even though Chuck E. Cheese is supposed to be a "happy place," a little strife never hurt anybody. Or, maybe, it does hurt, but that's how we get artists, great novelists, and ministers. I'm just asking for a few more hurdles; it's good for growth.3. I noticed what I've decided to call "the hidden danger" of Chuck E. Cheese. Lots of children were brought by their grandparents. At first glance, this would seem lovely. The kids are spending time with their grandparents, this is a special activity for the kids, and everyone is having a good time. However, once you dig beneath the surface, something more sinister rears its ugly head. I saw one Grandma standing next to her grandson and feeding him token after token while repeating, almost mantra-like, the phrase, "Get the bonus, Baby. Get the bonus." And, that's when I realized that when Grandma isn't at Chuck E. Cheese, she's on the bus from the senior center down to the casino with a bucket of quarters in her lap. Grandma loves the slots, and she's probably turning poor Bobby into a slots-lover too even though he's at least 12 years away from being able to gamble legally. When they go home, Grandma probably only lets her grandson watch PBS or the celebrity poker tournament because she can be sure there won't be too much sex or violence on either of those. Little Bobby is learning to love risk, and he doesn't even know it.That's right, people - Chuck E. Cheese isn't just a wonderland of games and lights, it's a training ground for the future gamblers of the world. Let's get the word out, so this "hidden danger" won't be kept in the dark anymore.

My Diet

Friday evening, I ate out. This is pretty normal for my weekend activities, and I didn't have anything of interest in the fridge, so it was also necessary. For most of dinner, I was enjoying myself immensely - I had good food, good company, and speedy service. For awhile, all was well.Then, as the waitress came over to refill my drink about halfway through the meal, she looked down at my plate and said, and I quote, "You go girl!" She laughed, too.Now, as a female and a human being with feelings, I don't really like it when people comment on how much I've eaten. I especially don't like it when they seem awed my how much food I've consumed.And, to best convey my upset, I should probably mention the name of the "restaurant" now. This didn't happen at some sort of swanky place only visited by anorexics and low-carb addicts so that you understand why the wait staff isn't used to people finishing their meals. This happened at IHOP! IHOP, people - as in THE INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES!Don't you think they've probably seen people actually drink the syrup there?Sure, I may have been eating something called the Pancake Combo, but it was incredibly economical. And, I may have asked for both chocolate chip pancakes and bacon strips, but I hadn't eaten all day. Plus, at the risk of beating a dead horse, isn't this IHOP? Isn't this one of the few places one is free to eat beyond all normal standards of what is healthy and/or gross without repercussion? (IHOP and The Cheesecake Factory, right?) Short of ordering pure lard rather than butter or heavy cream on my buttermilk short stack, is there really any request I can make that the IHOP hasn't heard before?The next time the waitress came back to refill my diet coke (let's not dwell on the irony here), I could barely look her in the eye. With a few words, she had taken my meal from "highly enjoyable" to "full of shame."I don't think my self-esteem has been the same since.

Lost in Translation

Now, it may seem strange to you that anyone willing to admit her love of soap operas, made-for-television movies and Unsolved Mysteries, would still have shows that she doesn't want anyone to know she watches, but it's true. Even I have programming skeletons in my closet.

So, I'm just going to put it out there -- I really like Ghost Whisperer. I'm not sure what it is about the show. On many levels, I still cringe when I remember paging through Seventeen magazine and reading interviews with Jennifer Love Hewitt wherein she insisted everyone close to her called her "Love." I mean, that's simply not acceptable. You don't change your name to a new age name if you weren't born with one. Because, after all, you can't try to be a "Rainbow" or a "Peace." If you're given that name at birth, you live with it, and you own it. If not, you call yourself Jennifer or Emily or whatever else the birth certificate says, just like the rest of the sane world, and you're grateful that your parents are conformists.

And, if for some reason, that "concept name" sneaks its way in via the middle name as in the case of JLH, you push it out with equal force, and deny, deny, deny. You certainly don't ask people to actually call you by said name/unfortunate delusion your parents were suffering from in the wake of a 20-hour labor that made "Love" seem like a good naming choice. (Don't be too hard on them. At least it's not Kal-El Cage.)

(In case anyone is wondering about the Seventeen reference, let's remember that it was 1995, and I loved Party of Five. And, while I didn't want to be Jennifer Love Hewitt, I kind of wanted to be Sarah Reeves because she was the only one that Bailey really loved, and she got to make out with him every week.)

Anyway, I never watched Time of Your Life because I only liked Sarah as an extension of Bailey. And, while I did see both of the I Know What You Did Last Summer films, I was never what you would call a "Love Fan."So, the fact that I like Ghost Whisperer certainly came as a shock to me.

I even avoided watching the show until one post-bad-break-up Friday night when I had no cable and no desire to leave my afghan/ice cream cocoon, and it was a choice between obscure sporting events, the Ghost Whisperer or going to bed before 8 p.m.

Nearly instantly, I was hooked.I think a large part of it is that I'm a crier, and I kind of appreciate the weekly opportunities to let out some emotion while JLH brings closure to a grieving family and helps a soul pass on. Or, it could have to do with the fact that the actor who plays her husband is hot, and it gives a single gal hope to believe that he would marry JLH's character even though she spends countless hours talking to ghosts and playing fetch with a dead dog. (I know it's fiction, but let me dream.)

But, I have to say that as much as I enjoy Ghost Whisperer, the last five minutes tend to make me a little angry.For those of you who haven't seen the show (which I assume to be most people), during the last five minutes of the hour, JLH usually brings the soul of the dead person into a face-to-face situation with the formerly skeptical loved one or friend so that the two can "talk" and get some closure before the spirit feels free to move past this world.

At first glance, you might wonder, "What could be so bothersome about a heart to heart between the dead and the living?"Here it is -- what gets me is that JLH tends to summarize for the dead rather than giving a word-for-word recap. Now, I realize that this is done for the sake of the viewing audience. After all, watching the same speech repeated by two different characters would be pretty boring, and as the audience, we've already gotten the emotional weight of what's being said.

But, still ...If I were getting a message from beyond the grave, I really wouldn't want a medium who editorializes or "puts things in her own words." That seems like the one time you'd want to make sure that nothing is being left our or omitted for the sake of time. After all, it's not like there are going to be a lot of opportunities for clarification or chances to ask questions later.And, if I had traveled across a few metaphysical and spiritual planes to deliver my last words to those close to me, I would hope that someone would be damn sure to get all of it -- WORD FOR WORD.

After a lifetime of dealing with the DMV, utility companies and traffic, isn't it only fair that your clairvoyant of choice repeats your unearthly wisdom rather than condensing it?Is that so much to ask Jennifer Love Hewitt? Is it?

Coffee Talk

I haven't been able to put together many intelligent thoughts today, and I think it might have something to do with the fact that I'm still reeling from a conversation I had earlier:Setting: StarbucksMe: (Approaching the table with my tall drip coffee) Is that the skim milk you have there?Stranger: (Holding a large silver pitcher) No, it's the non-fat milk. Sorry.At the risk of sounding too much like Britney Spears in a particularly embarrassing and widely circulated video out take from her series "Chaotic" - huh?I guess this is how the universe repays me for dissing the thesaurus yesterday.

Too Little, Too Late?

Back in the day, when I taught English 101 (poorly, I might add), I would make a list at the beginning of the semester with 4 words on it: good, bad, interesting, and different. I told my students that I never wanted to see any of these words in their papers, and that if they encountered one of these terms while proofreading their work, they had to replace it with something else."Why?" you might ask - because I don’t know what any of those words mean.Rather, I know what those words mean to me, but I have no idea what they mean to you. Your mom might be a "good" parent because she takes care of you by doing your laundry, cooking your meals, and picking up your towels off the bathroom floor. Or, she might be a good mom because she made you do certain chores for yourself and thereby taught you self-reliance. Just based on the word "good," I have no idea. Similarly, Mr. Johnson who lives across the street could be a "bad" neighbor because he constantly has parties and takes up all the parking on the street. Or, you could think he’s a bad neighbor because he killed your cat. There’s a world of difference there - not to mention a gross disparity in how much sympathy you’re going to get from me.So, when my students stumbled on one of those terribly vague and awfully subjective little words, they were supposed to get much more specific and use clear examples to illustrate and explain the ideas and concepts in their writing. As most of us who have been in an English class know, you can’t just tell me you’ve got a great best friend and expect me to fully back your argument - you’ve got to show me.Of course, I was largely ineffective at getting this idea across.More so than anything else, I just seemed to develop an ever-expanding list of words that were not concrete and much too open to interpretation, especially without the teacher-begged-for examples - words like things, cool, neat, fun, likable, enjoyable, evil, likely to change, etc.Much to my continuing frustration, when I said "replace these vague terms with specific illustrations," my students heard, "go to the thesaurus function in Microsoft Word."For the most part, I try to block out my teaching days. After all, that year of my life tended to involve way too much crying and yelling. (The yelling occurred on the part of the students by the way. I certainly never worried about the extent of swear words in their vocabulary, although sometimes their verbal abuse did lack for proper conjugation. "No, Jenny, I suck, and she sucks - not you sucks.")But, yesterday on the train, I became overwhelmed with the desire to give my little lesson on specificity and word choice to a stranger. In a conversation sparked by none other than ever-present Dan Brown and his "Deception Point," random girl on the train started in (at a very high volume) on how she wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t "good," and in a shocking corollary to that statement, how much she hated "bad" books.This went on for most of my commute.I almost wish is was possible to elaborate on her conversation, but considering that mainly the words "good" and "bad" were repeated over and over again, it would be hard. (From here on out, I’ll try to ignore the fact that it hurts me to hear "The Da Vinci Code" referred to as a "good" book. "The Da Vinci Code" is entertaining. It’s suspenseful. It keeps the reader’s attention. But, is it full of beautiful language? Does it create thought-provoking and multi-dimensional characters? Does it offer profound commentary on human nature or a particular world view? I give those questions a "no," and so "The Da Vinci Code" doesn’t make the "good" designation in my book. Yes, I am a book snob. But, just because I won’t go with "good," doesn’t mean that I don’t recognize it as an "entertaining" read. Otherwise, let’s agree to disagree.) Anyway, my point is this - as girl on the train was going on, and on, and on, I wished that I had a tape recorder so that I could get her ranting down and play it for all of those former students.Behind my constant harping on nebulous language and poor word choice is simply this lesson - if you’re going to talk or write or use your unique voice, you ought to say something. While this stranger was rambling on and on with only words like "good" and "bad," she wasn’t really getting any sort of point or opinion across. (Do I know what she has read? Do I know why she picks up a book? Do I even know a title of one of these supposed "good" books? No.) Sure, she was talking, but she wasn’t saying anything.Without illustrative and thoughtful language, it is nearly impossible to communicate our thoughts and perspectives. This is why I love literature and language.Unfortunately, discovering teaching techniques a year after the fact is probably why I didn’t make a very good educator.

Location, Location, Location

As I have alluded to before, the leasing company that owns my apartment building seems willing to list anything and everything as a special "feature" that comes with signing a lease on Dakin street. The glorified window sill off my front window is a "balcony."On Thursday, I overheard the little clouded window in my shower referred to as a "bonus" because of the "incredible natural light" it provides. (Lies, I tell you. All that little window provides me with is a little extra anxiety every morning as I wonder whether or not anyone can see in from the outside. I assume the answer is "no," but how can I ever really be sure?)And, as I have listened to these ridiculous pitches over and overagain, I can't help but wonder why the leasing agents continually ignore my absolute favorite "feature" of the apartment.My apartment doesn't exactly have a stellar view. From the front, I overlook the street below and a newly renovated condominium building. And, from my bedroom, I would stare directly into the balcony and living room of my neighbor, but because I loathe the idea of opening the blinds at the wrong time and having an awkward eye contact moment with said neighbor, I've decided it's easier to just never, ever open that window or remove it's covering. Simply put - I don't have the skyline or lake sightingsmany Chicagoans can boast.So, my favorite part of all the scenery that surrounds my living quartersis a little piece of landscaping I've come to know as "the break-up tree." You see, when you look into the branches of the tree only a few steps from my front door, you see a lovely array of men's clothing that I assume must have landed there after being tossed out an open window during some sort of argument over recently discovered cheating. (Sometimes, when I get really carried away, I imagine that you could hear the screaming all the way down the block and there might have been some Usher "Confessions"- level bad behavior going on.)The best part of the break-up tree is that it is a gift that keeps on giving. Sometimes, when there's a storm or a particularly strong wind, yet another piece of men's clothing falls from the tree to the ground. This morning, it was a pair of boxers. (With all of the stuff that continues to fall out of the tree, I don't think our philandering ex got away with much of a wardrobe after the fight.)And, while this may not be what everyone would consider the best part of living in my apartment, I think it is as equally valid as the non-existent balcony and natural lighting being touted on a near daily basis by paid "professionals."

Casa de Laurel

This past weekend, I had some out of town visitors from the great state of Alabama. And, since one friend stayed with me and another stayed elsewhere, it made me think about the vast differences in accommodations between a stay with unemployed Laurel and an overnight visit with our other artist friend - who we'll refer to as "the good one" from now on.1. The good one's condo is beautiful. It has state of the art appliances, a very large flat screen TV, and furniture most people would kill for. It is also a two bedroom, so visitors get their own room complete with a memory foam mattress.In contrast, my apartment is largely empty and inflatable. I only have 4 pieces of furniture in Chicago and half of them require air pumps. Thus, your options pretty much include having a seat on the inflatable blue chair from Target or sleeping on the air mattress from K-Mart. Oh wait - I forgot something. If neither of those options is appealing, there's always the deflated air mattress that has a hole in it, but still resides on the living room floor so that my dog can lay on it during the day. I suppose that could get thrown into the mix as well.2. Little did I know before this weekend, but apparently the good one brews fresh green tea in the morning and serves it to you with breakfast.Based on the previous description of my apartment, I hope you feel free to assume that I don't have a tea set. In fact, I'm lucky if I can find a clean glass. And, while I don't have gourmet beverages, I am willing to run down to the market across the street where not much English is spoken and pick up a diet coke or apple juice for my guests. What can I say? I'm just that giving.3. A stay with the good one means that you will be chauffeured around the city in a pristine BMW.From my apartment, we get around by glorious public transportation. If you're really lucky (as my friend was this past weekend), I'll even pick the car with a large panhandling woman in a "Hustle 24/7/365" t-shirt who has her screaming baby with her that won't stop sticking his hands down his own dirty diaper.Please, please - don't everyone start looking into flights to visit me in Chicago now. I know I've given a pretty good sales pitch...Actually, I think I'll stop writing now. I need to give the good one a call and see if he's interested in a live-in maid or personal assistant.

Supermarket Sweep

Yesterday I went to the Trader Joe's grocery store. Trader Joe's is probably best known for their plentiful selection of 2 buck chuck (the Charles Shaw wines that never cost more than 3 dollars), but their other claim to fame is the high quality of their organic, pesticide-free, incredibly natural foods.Personally, I'm not all that big into the organic market. I love my nutrasweet. I like the fact that the food in my freezer can survive for decades because of the wonder that is preservatives. Truth be told, if it tastes great, I don't necessarily need to know what's in it or how it was put together. Don't believe me? I still eat hot dogs on a regular basis.But, Trader Joe's isn't very far away, and did I mention the fact that they sell really cheap wine?So, on to the story of my actual grocery shopping...I found some veggies, and I decided that I wanted some deli meat as well. When I got to the sliced turkey, I noticed that the big selling point at Trader Joe's is the fact that their meat is "antibiotic free."Now, I can understand why it would be important that your meat is steroid free. (Again, though, maybe this is why I would make a bad farmer. It seems like a bigger turkey would be a better turkey. As long as there was no poultry related roid rage, I could get on board with that.) I can even understand why some people like to know that their turkey was raised in the lovely open air of Nova Scotia with kind workers who gave the turkeys baths in Evian water and blow dried their tail feathers. Sure, I'm not this person, but I can see where it might be an appealing notion.But, I would prefer that my turkey be treated with antibiotics rather than not. If that sucker is sick, pump it up with some benadryl or amoxicillin or whatever it takes to make it well. I certainly don't want to be the one eating turkey that was "cured" with acupuncture, aromatherapy or holistic medicine. If it's the meat going into my body, I want the use of traditional Western veterinary medicine. You could hose that baby down with disinfectant, and I'd be a happy camper.Rather than being a plus, I have to say that "antibiotic free" was a big detriment in my book. I walked away from the all natural meat and will probably be getting some nice Butterball brand turkey later this afternoon.And, please no e-mails about what's really in that one. I truly am happier not knowing.

Some Thoughts on my Daytime Viewing

Now, I hinted at this a few weeks ago, but I think it's time to go ahead and say it aloud. And, believe me when I say that it pains me to admit this, but I don't think that "Unsolved Mysteries" holds up as I age.For those of you wondering how I can still watch "Unsolved Mysteries" in today's day and age, let me remind you that I am currently blessed with (a) tons of free time during the day that those of you who "work" and have nutty things like "health insurance" and "retirement plans" don't enjoy and (b) the Lifetime network. Every day at 1 p.m., I can tune into an hour-long episode of the real life human drama. (Except on Mondays. On Mondays they rerun "Angela's Eyes" in place of "Unsolved Mysteries." Don't even get me started on how I feel about this poor programming decision.)And, also, yes, there was a time in my life when "Unsolved Mysteries" seemed amazing and did resonate with me. I believed that I could contribute to a better, less crime-ridden society by paying careful attention to the dramatic re-enactments and composite photos, and I also thought I was learning a lot of secrets about the world around me that certain key government officials DID NOT want me to know. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must also confess that there was a time when I was relatively convinced that the sought-after suspect in an old Oklahoma murder was my deceased great uncle. It could be true. I could have been watching too much television and needing to get out of the house more. Maybe it's a little of both. We'll leave that one up in the air.)I still think there's a lot to be said for putting wanted criminals on television in an entertaining format. After all, John Walsh and others do capture wanted men and women. Also, I love my Robert Stack. I only wish he had moved into the book on tape business. I find his voice soothing, although that might just be because of how much of him I watched as a child. Do I really like Robert Stack's voice, or does the fact that his voice reminds me of my youth make me like it?Well, now I've wound myself into another chicken or the egg situation. Let's move on.Personally, I was always amazed by how many murderers used to watch "Unsolved Mysteries." It seemed that most of the updates involved a story that began with, "Well, Jake and I were watching 'Unsolved Mysteries' when he seemed to get a little nervous. And, then he said he was going for some smokes during the commercial break, but I noticed that he packed a bag before getting in the car...And, he asked me to make him a lot of sandwiches..." (It also always amazed me how many women made their husbands/boyfriends snacks before watching them run from the law.) Why in the world would you agree to watch "Unsolved Mysteries" with other people if you knew you were a fugitive? Would it really be that hard to say, "Nah, why don't we put the game on instead"? Is it an act of stupidity or ego or bizarre vigilance - "Awesome, another week has gone by without me being featured on national television"? Are these murderers also adopted children who don't know they birth parents, so they're actually hoping to make the "lost loves" but not the "wanted" segments? And, finally, when they do see themselves on "Unsolved Mysteries," would it be that difficult to run after the program rather than in the middle of it? After all, I'm pretty sure that's the definition you get when you look up "arousing suspicion" in the dictionary.Oh well, it's not like I would be a very good fugitive myself. Other than loving wigs and hair dye, I would never remember to respond to my new name, and after my first night of cocktails in a new town, everyone would know my life story - including the details of my crime and how I hoped the actress recreating my tale didn't look fat or splotchy. (Wouldn't that be the worst?)Anyway, my point is this - I used to put some credence into "The Unexplained" segments. I could buy that 2 older women returning from a bingo night at the church saw a UFO and consequently suffered from radiation poisoning. I could accept that strange things do indeed happen in the Bermuda Triangle. But, as I mentioned a few weeks ago, I cannot accept that there is a human face on the surface of Mars. And, I certainly cannot get on board with the story I saw a couple of days ago.The segment opens with a seemingly sane and well-dressed, poised young woman discussing the fact that she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She then moves on to detail her prayers, etc. So far, I'm good. I'm even more than good - I'm actually listening which is more than I can say for most of my television viewing. It's when we get to how her prayers were answered that the mind begins to boggle. She says, and I couldn't make this up if I tried, that "a strange vapor" started to fill up the room while she was resting on her bed at home before "a small, floating disk with blinking lights" came in through the window, floated over her body, and went back out the window and that "the visitor from another planet took her cancer away."[Insert stunned silence here.]Is this a joke? Did someone at the "Unsolved Mysteries" office actually buy this? Does someone who has not spent time on mind-altering drugs accept this as fact? How did this one make it past what I assume must be some means of fact-checking or research to verify aspects of a story? Is there a disgruntled employee? An act of sabotage? Was someone so tired of talking to alien abductees that they just became jaded - their dream of working in television reduced to answering a 1-800 line primarily populated with crazies? Was it an experiment gone wrong? Someone wondering how far they could get with nonsense, thinking it would never get on the air? I simply cannot understand.And, even if the absolute absurdity of this story didn't register with producers and assistants, how did it get past the video technicians? After all, someone actually had to listen to this woman describe her miniature UFO, create the image, and impose it over a video of her sleeping body. If that's not a moment when a little bit of you dies on the inside, I don't know what is.So, in so many words, "Unsolved Mysteries" is not all that I remembered it to be, and there goes another piece of my childhood.

The Movie-of-the-Week Viewer's Guide

With my late night viewing over the past week, I've seen a strange combination of the "Scream" trilogy and my beloved Lifetime movies. (Patrick Dempsey is in "Scream 3." Does anyone remember that? That's part of where he was before being reborn on "Grey's Anatomy." Weird, huh?) And, as such, I was inspired. I now offer you my rules for surviving a Lifetime movie.Rule #1: You are always going to trust the wrong person. Always. If you believe your husband despite the warnings of all the other townspeople, a string of doctors, and multiple police officers, it will turn out that he is trying to kill you. On the other hand, if you listen to all those people, run from your husband, and try to turn him in, it will turn out that your husband was innocent all along and has actually been framed by some other seemingly insignificant best friend/town sheriff/third cousin, who, of course, is also the person you chose to run straight to when you became terrified for your life. (Just ask Marcia Cross about "Living in Fear" - like all the others, she had to learn the hard way.) You must always go against your first instinct, but I still can't promise that that will save you.Rule #2: Your best friend is a goner - especially if that best friend is a thinker. Should you want those close to you to survive your drama of the week, in no way, shape, or form confide your concerns to them. Don't tell them what you learned from microfilm down at the local library. Don't mention that you found the new nanny trying on your clothes when she thought you were out. And, under no circumstances reveal that you "just don't know who to believe anymore." These words are like a beacon to the caring friends of the world, and they can't help but investigate for themselves. Unfortunately, this info hunt will lead to their early demise, and you will then have one less ally in that final showdown with the psychopath in your life.Rule #3: If anyone tells you that they faked their own death "to protect you," DON'T BELIEVE THEM! No one pretends to be dead if they really love you. It's kind of like a really extreme version of "He's Just Not That Into You." And, I know it hurts to hear it, but I think it's a pretty good rule of thumb for relationships - men who really care about you don't just call when they say they will, they also let you know when they're ALIVE. (Kellie Martin eventually figures this out in "Live Once, Die Twice," but she ends up duct taped to the hood of a yacht because she is willing to believe her bigamist, death-faking husband's claim that all of his shenanigans were part of his mission as a secret government agent. Secret agent? Really Kellie? Even I expect more from the heroines of my Lifetime movies.)Rule #4: It's best to kennel your pets during times of extreme distress. Either (a) the crazy who is making your life hell will kill your beloved canine companion or (b) you'll let the dog/cat out, the animal won't return to the door, you'll go outside to look for him or her, and then crazy will sneak into your home to attack you.Rule #5: Make sure the evil doer is dead. Otherwise, they're just bound to move to a new town and pull the same crap one someone who looks exactly like you.Rule #6: Don't forget that the greatest danger sometimes lurks in your own head. Sometimes you think you're being stalked when really you've just got another personality that keeps killing all of your friends and co-workers and writing scary messages on the wall to make it look like you're in grave danger. (Please reference "Victim of Beauty" for more information.) Lifetime would probably prefer it if I said that "the great danger in your own head" could be a lack of self-esteem that leads to an abusive relationship or flagging confidence that means you don't trust your instincts when it comes to the neighbor much too interested in your young daughter. But, come on. We all know that potentially murderous repressed alter egos are a lot more of a concern than anything as silly as "believing in yourself."Now, some of these rules may seem severe or reactionary, but you have to remember that we're not dealing with the Hallmark channel here. This is no "Touched by an Angel." And, as such, only extreme caution and suspicion are going to get us all through the most difficult 2 hours of our lives.

Man's Best Friend

Like most animals (and people, for that matter), our family dog was quite an individual. And, of course, with all marks of great individuality also come the marks of eccentricity.Noel (or, as my friend Susan, and only my friend Susan knows him - Snowflake) liked to terrorize the troop of yorkies that live next door to my parents at the lake. (And, by "terrorize," I mean bark incessantly at them until a few of the sassy lap dogs would saunter over to confront him in all of their coifed and pink-ribboned glory, and he would run away.) He never warmed up to my grandmother, even though he saw her a few times a week, every week, for almost 14 years. He was fine with anyone who sun bathed by the pool, but he didn't like anyone to actually swim in it, and he would let you know his displeasure by barking at you every time your head bobbed above the surface of the water.Noel was smart enough to know that my mother used a plastic pitcher to water her garden plants, and when he was thirsty, he would follow her around the yard until she gave him some water, too. And, I couldn't have been prouder than the day I taught him to play dead after I pointed by finger at him and yelled "bang!" (This trick was slightly more successful than the time my middle sister, Rachael, tried to teach Noel how to read. Although, I guarantee you it was not for lack of trying. She sat the dog down in front of her little chalkboard on many afternoons.)And, also like people, Noel became more particular as he aged. He took longer naps. He avoided the stairs. He didn't like to sleep by himself. And, whenever Noel was around my younger dog, Cassidy, I was convinced that the word "whippersnapper" existed in both human and dog speak.But, all of this was pretty good for a family that wasn't supposed to have a dog to begin with. After my father's Bassett hound passed when my sisters and I were very little, there was never much talk of another dog in the Mills house.Lucky for me, when I was 12, my parents decided to buy a house that I hated.Of course, at first I couldn't believe that my vote wasn't equal to both of theirs in the whole process. After all, what kind of crazy parents buy a house without making sure their pre-teen thinks it's the best one on the market? Hadn't they seen the two story with the tennis court out back? Or, what about the one that would have put me closer to my friend so that when we got our licenses 4 years later, it would be easier to carpool? And, none of that even touched on all of the lovely houses I saw in the free real estate magazines at the front of the Piggly Wiggly.Yes, they were making a poor decision indeed.So, like any 12 year old who doesn't get their way, I started crying every day at the grave injustice of it all. At one point, I even refused to move. And, while I'm sure that the new family buying our old house would have loved that addendum to the contract, my parents said that I still had to go with them. (Tyrants, I tell you...)One afternoon, my parents' real estate agent and family friend approached me while I was crying (yet again) and asked if there was absolutely anything that would make this move bearable for me."Anything?" I asked."Anything," she said.And, this is when my brilliant idea to have a dog was born. After all, as I pointed out, our new house not only had a fenced in yard, but a separate dog run with a built-in dog house as well. It was like the house was asking me to bring it a dog (although not in a creepy Jack Nicholson from The Shining kind of way). I knew it must be some kind of fate.Getting my sisters on board was easy enough, and when faced with how difficult I could make a move, or getting a dog, my parents agreed to the puppy. But, as my mother pointed out again and again, we were only getting "an outside dog."In the next couple of months, we looked at every kind of purebred there was. I wanted a German Shepard after we saw "Radio Flyer." My sister wanted a Bassett hound. My dad thought labs would be easy to train. Without ever reaching a majority decision at the home of breeder after breeder, we went to the pound where my sisters and I immediately fell in love with the runt from a litter of mutts.We took him home to begin his life in that great, wide dog run in the backyard. But, it was December, and my sisters and I thought it was too cold outside for a puppy, so we convinced my mother to keep him in the laundry room at night. After all, it's pretty hard to turn down 3 girls holding a puppy - especially when they're a little bit teary. (Just ask my father, he's been trying for years.)A few weeks later, it was still winter and Noel was too big for the laundry room, so we thought he should probably just stay in the kitchen. And, by the time Spring came around, at bedtime he was usually at the foot of my or my sister's bed.Noel was the best purebred, outdoor dog a girl could ever ask for.Throughout the coming years, there were times the only "person" I wanted to talk to was Noel - when tests didn't go well, when boys didn't call, when colleges said no. And after going off to one of those colleges that said yes, visits home also meant that I couldn't wait to get my lost time in with Noel too. I loved that dog.And, so, this is my tribute to Noel, who passed away on Friday. And, I also think of this as a tribute to the Peppers, Dodgers, Mollys, and Sinbads of the world. I can't help but think they take a little bit of our childhood with them when they go. But, they sure made it fun when they were around.

Getting Through my Funk

Of course, I have felt sad before. But, this time I'm not talking about the heart broken or grieving kind of sad; I mean more of the "why?" kind of sad where you don't quite feel pity for others or yourself but you do sense a general disappointment with human kind and the state of the world. Although, again, this disappointment isn't the despairing kind like when pedophiles get out of jail or you watch too much true crime programming on A&E, but more of that upset that leaves you not knowing whether to laugh or cry.Let's review a few examples: I felt this kind of sad when I learned that a woman in Alabama had taken up a wandering, elderly stranger on his offer of a free home mammogram with no reservations or "red flags" going up. (It was her neighbor who suspected something was amiss and called the police, not her.) I sense it whenever I realize that "The Girls Gone Wild" guy will receive a check next week that amounts to far more money than I can ever hope to make in my lifetime. Having to sell fake hair at a mall kiosk, Donny Osmond's success, and the sign I saw at UAB advertising a "yart sale" cause this sensation as well.And, I've felt old before. There was the day one of my 7th grade students asked if I was the mother of another 7th grader. (I was 23.) There was the time I mentioned to the college freshmen I taught that I couldn't believe they actually made a sequel to that stellar Jennifer Lopez vehicle "Anaconda," and they stared at me blankly because they had no idea "Anacondas" could have a predecessor. There was even the time I asked a bartender if she wanted to see my id, and she said, "No, I can see your face." And, none of this touches on the fact that I regularly visit yarn stores, usually can't stay out for both nights of a bachelorette weekend, and have to order decaf coffee past 4 in the afternoon because otherwise "I'll be up all night."So, the other night when I couldn't sleep (probably because someone slipped me some caffeine when I specifically requested otherwise...), I watched "The Girls Next Door" about Hugh Hefner's 3 girlfriends. It was quite entertaining, especially when Holly, the main girlfriend, complained that she didn't like "Casablanca" as a love story because Ingrid Bergman's character "couldn't make up her mind."Oh, Holly...Well, in light of that comment and other zaniness, I did some internet searching the next day to learn more about the show and "the girls."And, that's when I started to feel both old and sad at the same time.You see, I am older than 2 of Hugh Hefner's girlfriends. Yes, not 1, but 2. In fact, Kendra, the self-proclaimed "most ghetto" of the 3 (she gets her grill next week, don't miss it!), was actually born in 1985.1985...Old and sad are definitely appropriate tags for my emotions.Of course, this is only a bit of what women have felt for centuries about aging and the double standard of male/female dynamics, but I will tell you that I might be changing my tune about botox in the very near future - especially if Jamie Lynn Spears shows up in an MTV video anytime soon.

Evolution

Do we all remember Michael Pitt? Well, maybe we don't all remember the name Michael Pitt, but I'm sure we all remember Henry Parker, the younger albeit kind of creepy freshman that taught Jen Lindley how to love and trust again after her tumultuous upbringing of ecstasy and too-young-to-have-sex days in New York City before she arrived world-wise and jaded to live in a little town called Capeside, Mass with Grams and a host of others who taught a new-to-the-WB-network generation what a teen soap should be.Aaaahhhh, those were the days...And even though Henry was fairly awkward and uncomfortable to look at directly, he was kind of sweet, and no one really cared all that much about his storyline because Joey and Pacey were busy falling in love, so Henry and Jen's scenes were just meant to be tolerable to begin with, and when he did dump Jen off-screen via an e-mail to gay best pal Jack, you were kind of relieved he wouldn't be around anymore rather than getting too upset.In short, all was right with the world.

And, then Michael Pitt thought that his stint on "Dawson's Creek" had led Hollywood producers to type cast him, so he signed on for a little film called "Murder by Numbers," where he played a homicidal teen. (Seriously, Michael, can't you just get drunk and beat up some hockey fans like our dear friend Joshua Jackson. That shows adulthood. Plus, no one has nightmares over that kind of performance. But, then again, you are no Pacey Witter, as we've all known for quite a long time. Sigh.) And, while he stepped up the creepy factor quite a bit for that movie, he still was, in a disturbing way, kind of sweet. After all, he's the one that saves our emotionally scarred heroine from the clutches of his evil partner in crime. He's the one that wants to confess. When the credits roll, he's still kind of ok in our books...Or, at least, we still believe he has a soul.

Which is all why I have to wonder what the hell happened? The other night I turned on "Law & Order: SVU" to see Michael in a guest starring role. He looked like he hadn't showered in months. And, again he was at the creepy serial killer talk. His character had even killed someone's dog because she wouldn't go out with him. Now, I recognize that these are all fictitious roles, but I began to wonder if Michael was only playing the psychotic these days. And, I have to say that my internet searches were not encouraging.Here is our dear, former love sick freshman Henry Parker. (By the way, this photo is from being "out and about," not a role.) He needs a haircut. He needs to bathe. I kind of wonder if he needs to reclaim his dignity. It seems that at one point he played Kurt Cobain. Maybe his research and attempts at method acting took him too far. Some of his other recent film titles include "Delirious," "Silk," and "The Heart is Deceitful Above all Things." I continue to worry. Did anyone else notice that he seems to be wearing a shirt that he inscribed with a message he wrote himself in red marker? (Maybe he didn't just write with the marker, if you know what I mean...)Michael - sure, type casting sucks. But, please remember that being type cast as a heroin addict or unstable murderer is just as bad as being seen only as a teen star. And, maybe your love for Jen Lindley transcended the small screen, and it's been hard for you since Michelle Williams hooked up with Heath Ledger, but please understand that this is not the way to get her, or any other lady, back. So, go on, buck up. Climb in that shower with some dial antibacterial body wash and started living among the rest of us again.After all, Henry Parker wouldn't give up, and I don't think you should either.

More on Reality TV

Late Saturday night/Sunday morning, I finally discovered "Project Runway" for myself. I don't know what took me so long to jump on the Heidi Klum bandwagon, but at least I'm there now. And, in light of my new discovery, I have to share my favorite moments from the last episode.For those of you who missed it, the designers were tasked with creating a woman's wear outfit primarily based around a "story" and a dog that was considered not only another entity to design for but also an accessory. (I use "story" incredibly loosely because while Heidi insisted each designer craft a tale around their outfit, as an English major and creative writing person, I think something was lost in the German to English translation.)At the end of the program, each designer unveiled their human and dog outfits while Heidi, Vera Wang, that lady from Elle magazine, and Ivanka Trump took note.The winner was a lovely blonde girl whose name I don't know. She designed a very pretty patterned halter dress with great accessories, including a chunky necklace and jacket. I take no issue with her outfit. My problem arose when Heidi asked for her "story."Lovely blonde aspiring designer said something like, "You know, she's a fabulous girl. She's very hip. And she's on her way to lunch with her other fabulous girlfriends before they all go out to have lots of fun and live the rest of their fabulous lives."Is this really a story? Really? If so, I'd like to know the plot. I'd also like to know the beginning, middle, and end. (Other than, of course, being on her way to lunch, lunching, and then drinking after lunch.) It seems to me that it would be much more appropriate to call this a "description" rather than a "story." Where's the twist? Where's the character development? What changes from the beginning to the end?But, my favorite part was when Ivanka Trump chimed in with, "You know, I really love this outfit. I would wear it. But, what really gets me is the story. I find it so easy to relate to."And, there you have it people - Ivanka Trump relates to ladies who lunch. When will the audacious revelations stop? Who knew "Project Runway" had so much to show the world? (And, by "the world," I mean the audience of Bravo network which is primarily composed of stylish gay men, various metrosexuals, and those of us who love James Lipton - basically, half the population of Remlap, Alabama.)(Also, as another side note, I once took a class with Ivanka Trump while she was at Georgetown, before she transferred to the University of Pennsylvania. The class was "Social Inequality." I don't think there's any need to make a joke when the truth is so rich.)Well, lovely blonde girl won the challenge while Angela (who is distinguished by having lots of brown hair and small glasses) and another designer were revealed to have the 2 worst scores.Angela is my least favorite of the designers, mainly because of her attitude, and when asked about her story, she said something along the lines of, "I was thinking of a British headmaster who runs an art camp in Paris."Huh?!?!First of all, if you're going to give a character a particular nationality, there needs to be a reason. Deciding you're going to have a British headmaster only to place her in Paris makes absolutely no sense. And, why would a headmaster be teaching an art camp? Isn't she more of an administrator than a watercolor instructor? (While this may seem silly, I fully believe that all stories should have relatively reasonable explanations for actions and turns of events. I don't appreciate it when a writer in a fiction workshop comes up with a 15 page short story about a child who runs away from home, encounters a clown who wants to rob banks, meets a vagabond former lawyer who talks to her about going back to school, and ends up living with a mechanic above a bakery, so why would I enjoy Angela's nonsensical description?)I also have a point of contention in the fact that Angela's supposed "British schoolmaster" outfit involved fishnet stockings, a bunched mini skirt, and a cleavage-bearing, low cut, silver top.Here's where I completely agree with Ivanka: I have no idea how Angela crafted a "story" about a British teacher that ended up with clothing that looked much more appropriate for a "street-walker."But, still, even after last week's poor team performance, Angela was "in" while other designer was the one to be "out." Then again, maybe Heidi knew what she was doing. Now, I have to tune in this week not only to see who completely broke the "Project Runway" rules, but also to hope that Angela gets the boot. (No pun intended.)

* Laurel Goes Super High Tech! *

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who reads my blog, recommends my blog to friends, and keeps coming back to this site. I really appreciate your support.And, in the interest of making it easier to read my daily rantings, I have recently added a subscription option. That's right - you can now have my posts delivered directly to your inbox without having to worry about all that excessive web surfing. (Of course, if you're still hoping to go on disability for some nasty carpal tunnel syndrome, by all means, click away.) All you have to do is enter your e-mail address in the box just below the archives on the right hand side, and you'll never have to be without Laurel. (Except of course for the weekends, I do have a life after all - and, yes, constant Lifetime viewing counts as a life. I checked the Jaclyn Smith fan message boards.)So, thanks again, and please don't be shy about getting those subscriptions!

Public Transportation & Me

I know that I've been silly, that I've been living in denial all these years. What can I say? Hope springs eternal, even for a cynic like me. But, I know that I should have accepted certain consistent turns of fate long ago. Mainly:(a) I should never envision what I want to buy before I go out shopping because the mere act of mentally conjuring up what I want ensures that I will never find it,(b) checks will never arrive on or before the day that they are promised, so paying bills from said checks will only end in overdraft fees,(c) if I wait over an hour for a table at a restaurant, they will long since have sold out of the only dish I wanted to order, and, last but not least,(d) if there is a crazy person on a system of mass transit, he's going to sit next to me.And, as it so happens, as I boarded the bus from Damen to North and Clyburn on Friday afternoon - crazy found me and made himself at home. (If I were more interested in the horror genre, wouldn't Stephen King be so jealous of my set up? Him or Forrest Whitaker and "The New Twilight Zone"? I know "a bus ride with crazy" is a better premise than Jessica Simpson being turned into a doll by the anti-social kid she babysits.)Anyway, I should have known that something was wrong because within a minute of sitting down, I noticed that the man next to me started squirming in his seat, moving his shoulders up and down, and poking at me. When I turned to look at him, he stepped up his act and made a face. That's when I got that he thought I was crowding him in his seat. (This was ridiculous because (a) no one gets ample room on a city bus during rush hour and (b) as a fully grown man he had at least 40 pounds on me.) But, I was considerate; I pulled my bag closer to my chest and tried to scooch over. (Of course, I also pulled my bag to my chest in case he was one of those "uses his elbow to grope women's boobs on the bus/subway" kind of guys. After all, I watch Dateline. I know what's up.)Then, the standard warning came over the loudspeaker that any suspicious or unattended packages should be reported to the transit authorities immediately, and man next to me added, loudly, "Packages...Terrorists."It was uncalled for, but maybe he thought it was informative for others on the bus. At this point, I was willing to dismiss him as persnickety, but maybe not "crazy."At the next stop, a woman boarded in a bright yellow sun dress, and the man sitting next to me looked her straight in the eye and said, "Canary." I don't know if it was a comment on the color. I don't know if he was telling her she looked like a yellow songbird. I don't know if he was just trying to give his tongue a workout. With it only being the 1 word comment, it's hard to tell, but the woman smiled politely before nearly sprinting to the back of the bus.Little did I know that she was the lucky one.When the next passenger got on, my favorite bus buddy looked at her and said, "Blue hair...I hate f***ing vampires."Now, I could have been bothered by the hostility in his voice. Or, I could have been upset because he couldn't look past the superficial in a lovely young woman obviously still trying to find herself in the world. I could have even been bothered by the cursing.But, sadly, none of these are what really got me. As a dork and big fan of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," it was the complete lack of logic in his correlation that got on my nerves. (Anyone who might be tempted to point out my use of "logic" and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" in the same sentence obviously does not accept/love the "fun" contradictions that comprise quirky little old me.) Nowhere in the vampire legend is blue hair connected specifically with vampires. Pale skin because they can't handle sunlight? Yes. Fangs, an inability to have a reflection in a mirror, having to sleep in soil from their homeland, eternal life, an aversion to garlic and holy water, wooden stake issues, etc.? Of course. I would even accept a comment based on modern perceptions of vampires like black hair, dark clothes, capes, and bat necklaces. But, I must stand firm on the blue hair. It's just not there.Unfortunately, when I was well into minute 5 of this thought process and thinking about actually saying something to my fellow CTA rider about his inaccuracy, I realized that I might need to re-evaluate who was the "crazy" in this scenario.

Some Things I'd Like to Forget

Now, this probably doesn't need to be said, but I wasn't exactly a "cool" kid.

I went to private school. I tended to either duck or swat my hands frantically in front of me whenever any sort of ball came my way in gym class or on the playground. I spoke nonsense to myself in my room pretending to be French. And, I really liked to wear a tiara whether it was appropriate or not, as was immortalized in my kindergarten class picture.

"Cool" definitely isn't the right word.And, I also had a period when I really enjoyed conspiracy theories, not realizing that most of these ideas were espoused by the "crazies" of the world. (In fairness to me, my nannies always liked to watch a lot of daytime television, and if you live in the world of daytime television -- Phil Donahue, "All My Children," etc. -- you are much more likely to believe the impossible is probable. Twins with two different fathers? No problem. Men who dress as women and work for phone sex hotlines? Of course. Sisters who are also cousins who are also aunt and niece who also happen to be neighbors? Tell me more.)

After a particularly impressive interview on the local news morning show (that's right, local, I wasn't even smart enough to get most of my ideas from the Today show), I became convinced that Elvis was indeed still alive. I mean, supposedly the sideburns fell off of his corpse before the funeral. If that doesn't say wax dummy substituted for a body while Elvis runs off to live a peaceful life of anonymity, I don't know what does.

I also spent periods thinking that Marilyn Monroe had been murdered, George Reeves (the original Superman) didn't commit suicide, and UFOs were very real and hidden in large warehouses by the government. And, I shouldn't even get started on my JFK assassination theories.

Well, today I was watching Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime (of course), when one of the segments brought up a conspiracy theory I had forgotten about. It seems that two scientists claimed that a photo taken by an orbiting satellite of Mars clearly showed a human face, and this was a sure sign that the government was hiding proof of human life on the far away planet.

Yep, you heard that right. A picture of the surface of Mars supposedly showed an isolated human face embedded in the planet.

Just the face. Not a body. Not a person. Just a face lying on the surface of the planet.Even if we ignore the fact that the "face" didn't even look like a face, but more like the bunch of rocks I'm sure it actually was, why in the world would there be just a face lying on the surface of Mars? Why?!?! When is the last time you saw a human face lying anywhere? (If you work in a morgue, you cannot answer.) Could any rational human being accept this preposterous supposition?

Unfortunately, that's when I remembered that a young me had swallowed that idea hook, line, and sinker. I probably even went to school and told my friends how there were living creatures on Mars because of the 10 minutes I spent watching Unsolved Mysteries the night before.All of the laughing at the lunchroom table makes a lot more sense now.

A Night Out

Last night I attended an open mike poetry event. But, it wasn't quite like the poetry readings I'm accustomed to as an English grad student. Most people were either comics working on new material or "poets" that were big into enunciation, rhythm, and bashing their ex-girlfriends for 3 minutes before getting a tad weepy and too introspective towards the end of their "Karen was a Filthy Whore" work in 16 parts, 14 of which include references to Karen's new boyfriend - the overly muscled Neanderthal who doesn't appreciate the subtleties of Albert Camus.I felt a little like I was in the much too serious version of "So I Married an Axe Murderer," and I did have to debate whether or not I was supposed to clap or click my fingers thrice in the air at the end of each performance. (Clapping prevailed, and I only made it through about 3 performances anyway. After something that ended "become, becoming, becoming again, lest we become" while the poet drew his hands in front of him like he was praying, I retreated to my mental happy place where Hugh Laurie entertains me on the beach with his oh-so-dry British wit and oh-so-tasty daiquiris.)But, my point is this - after listening to multiple men complain about the fact that their girlfriends left them for the aforementioned Neanderthals, I was wholeheartedly on the side of the exes. I started to imagine poet after poet writing little poems for their beloved or getting weepy when things were just overwhelmingly beautiful. I could even see knowing that your boyfriend was going to go whine in a bar with badly written verse every time you had an argument, and I felt smothered just sitting there.This is how I imagine month 4:"Yeah, yeah, it's a great poem. No, I really love you too. Yeah...I love you with all my soul and all. And, I'm sorry that your boss didn't understand your creative genius. Maybe next time you should just do the spreadsheet like he asked you to...No, I agree that consumer-based American culture can be like a stranglehold. No, this isn't the world Thoreau imagined...I already told you I liked the poem that you sent me...Yes, I love you completely...No, I think your sensitivity is attractive, I really do. I would never dump you for my personal trainer...Yes, the sunset was particularly beautiful today, but, no, I didn't cry when I looked at it....OH DEAR GOD, COULD YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR A FREAKIN' MINUTE SO I COULD WATCH SOME FREAKIN' 'LAW & ORDER,' AND NO I DON'T WANT YOU TO JUST HOLD ME WHILE WE WATCH THE RAIN - JERRY ORBACH IS TALKING!"Maybe I'm not like most girls, but I'd take the overly muscled Neanderthal if it was an (a) or (b) option.