I AM the Whitest Person in America

So, it seems that there's a new song called "Chain Hang Low." (Well, "new" wouldn't be accurate considering that it's based around everyone's favorite summer camp song, "Do Your Ears Hang Low," but let's just go with it.)When I first heard it, I thought it said "Chain Gang Love."I'm really glad someone corrected me last night because I have been very bothered thinking of ways that members of a prison chain gang might show affection towards one another.

Please Pardon my Gloating

This probably doesn't need to be said, but I got very little from my devotion to Anna Nicole Smith's reality series, "The Anna Nicole Show." I did realize what an unhealthy attachment to one's pet was, who not to hire as an interior decorator (answer: Bobby Trendy), and why what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas, but there certainly wasn't a lot I could share with my friends or bring up over Thanksgiving dinner.But, today changed everything.I can now say that countless, often unfortunate, hours of Anna Nicole Smith voyeurism led to this moment - I told you so!I knew that Anna Nicole's lawyer, Howard K. Stern, was in love with her. And, I knew that they were making out when the cameras weren't rolling. (Ask my friend, Josh. We were convinced.) And, now that Howard K. Stern has announced that he is the father of her new baby daughter, I feel gloriously vindicated.I feel right and a bit smug, and I always like being right. Sure, the cost was high, but these fleeting moments of superiority sure are fun.Like I said, I knew it all along.

A Slap in the Face

Now, of course, I'm aware that some overly eager agents, media outlets, and rising starlets are willing to exploit my and others' love of celebrity gossip to generate publicity and attention for themselves and important projects. (Yes, I feel that I can use the phrase "exploit." They use me to sell movie tickets. I use them to get a daily fix on a life I'll never have. This is exactly how I justify my US Weekly addiction/subscription.) Need we reference the recent Jessica Simpson/John Mayer faux romance to prove my point?But, I really do feel that Aaron Carter has crossed the line. He gets engaged at 18? (Again, how many Macaulay Culkin and Jerry Lee Lewis references do I have to make before people realize that teen marriage is usually very bad?) Then he calls off his engagement within a week? And, interestingly enough, all of this occurs just as the reality show "House of Carters" is set to debut on October 2?Even I'm not that naive, Aaron.(Also, can we talk about the fact that Aaron's former fiance once dated his brother, Nick, too? Is he in such need of a girl to generate gossip with that he takes to his brother's pool of exes?)For shame, Aaron, for shame.After all, you were once the guy that Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff were vying for. Hell, because of you, Lindsay Lohan cut her fingernails against La Duff long before taking on Paris Hilton and Brandon Davis. There was a time when you were semi-big. And, maybe that's why these last few years have been so tough on you, but, you divorced your mom and your sister is regularly charged with assault. I have a feeling that your reality show would have sold itself.There was no need to sink to such tactics. But, now that you have, I, for one, won't be watching.

Unsettling Discoveries

Truth be told - I'm bothered today.First of all, there really are very few marketing and advertising campaigns that actually bug me. Do I like the commercial for "Head On," the headache cure you literally rub on your head, that just repeats the phrase "Head on, apply directly to the forehead"? No, but once I change the channel, I'm free. Do I think it's right that the people behind the Lunesta butterfly have much, much more money than me? Not necessarily, but I can deal.However, the jingle "get your fash' on" fills me with rage. Whether it is in Old Navy ads or being sung about in something related to J. C. Penney or Sear's, I just can't stand it. I want it to go away. And, even more so than that, I want it to be erased from my memory. "Get your fash' on"?!?! I can only conclude that this was once a bad joke that somehow got out of hand.And, last night, just as I was cringing from one of these Old Navy commercials, I saw a preview for tonight's episode of "The New Adventures of Old Christine," and I hit upon the second matter that is weighing on my mind today.Scott Bakula (Do I need to mention of "Quantum Leap" fame? After all, it was more of a gift to the world than just a television show...) will be guest-starring on Julia Louis-Dreyfus' show this evening, and it seems that he has somehow decided it's ok to have shoulder-length hair in his middle age.This does not sit well with me.I love Scott so much that this kind of criticism is painful for me, but I'm hoping that through our conflict we can reach a greater level of closeness. Oh, Sam/Scott - Why would you do this to me? It is not alright to have long hair past the age of 35 unless you are Willie Nelson. And, it is certainly not alright to live most of your life with short hair but then grow it out in middle age. This is why people mock mid-life crises. Are hair plugs next? Is there a poorly decorated loft with a futon in your future? The sports car with a vanity plate? Insisting you're going to chuck it all for culinary school?I beg you, Scott - cut the hair and get back to making sure the "Quantum Leap" reunion movie gets aired sometime before the end of 2007. I don't want to put conditions on my love, but these two little things would make me so happy.And, it's all about making each other happy, right?

Thursday's Thoughts

While this may come as a shock to many people, I have actually been accused of being a control freak before. (Personally, I've always thought the phrase "control freak" seemed a bit reactionary. Is it really so wrong to know how you like things? I love diet coke, but I do not love diet coke in a plastic bottle. Fountain soda is the best, and coke in an aluminum can comes in a close second. I will occasionally choose restaurants or convenience stores based on these criteria, but is that really so wrong? Although, I suppose the answer to that question depends on whether or not you're on a road trip with me, but bygones...) Now, sure there are times when I've wanted to ask the Subway sandwich artists if I could come behind the counter and make my own hoagie because it is maddening to watch their technique with the spicy mustard, and I do have a 3-step process for cleaning my rugs, but I still think "control freak" goes too far.Plus, I don't think enough people acknowledge how much better I've gotten in the last few years. My underwear drawer isn't hyper-organized anymore. (I used to have a system based on color, fabric, and style that also involved a sliding scale of general preference, the least favorites being farthest back in the drawer, etc.) Everything still has to be folded, but the categories are gone. I don't always rewind videos when I'm done watching them. I can wait a whole thirty minutes to pre-treat a stain. And sometimes, when I'm feeling really confident, I let other people mail letters for me, and I actually do a fairly convincing face that lets others think I almost trust them and that I don't have sweaty palms thinking about whether or not my bills will be paid on time.Yes sir, I've come a long way baby.But, I will say that on days like today - which, incidentally, is Laurel's Seasonal Decor Day when she takes out her home accessories for the coming fall season and realizes that she really is turning into her mother - my "controlling" ways can come in quite handy.All of my pumpkins and gourds were exactly where I put them and nicely separated from the Christmas decorations which will not be needed until the day after Thanksgiving. It was the easiest Seasonal Decor Day on record, and none of that would have been possible without the power of organization.And, now, if you will excuse me, I think I should stop writing. With these confessions about my underwear and love of gourds, I feel like I've already said too much.

The Last Straw

Well, in case there was any lingering doubt whatsoever, I now know that the allet-bay uild-gay and I will never get along.It seems that all of the meetings will be on Tuesday nights. (And, yes, of course the meetings are mandatory. If you miss a meeting, you have to make it up with something called a "flex point," and flex points scare me the most of all. I think tea and/or large-brimmed hats might be involved.) But, sticking to the original point - Tuesday nights?!?!Doesn't everyone spend his or her Tuesday night camped out in front of the television fantasizing about a life with Hugh Laurie...uh, I mean watching the critically acclaimed show "House"? Why would you ever plan anything else for Tuesdays when a British man with the most beautiful baby blues in the free world is making snide comments and almost killing his truth-challenged patients? Why - in the name of all that is good and holy - why?So, instead of spending my evening with House, Cameron, Wilson, and the rest of the gang, I will be listening to a scintillating debate on the new amendments to the allet-bay uild-gay's by-laws. Is it acceptable to change the age of membership from 26 to 24? Should the language read "Men's Committee of the Guild" or just "Men's Committee"? Is the invitation chairman responsible for all invitations or only those related to the actual ball?It should be thrilling. I am truly a lucky girl.

Customer Service Woes

At present, there are few entities I disdain more than my former pet insurance company. (I know, I know - it's weird to have pet insurance. You see, what happens is that you go and pick up a cute little puppy from the pound, and they offer you a few months of free pet insurance as a thank you for adopting a homeless dog. You think this is incredibly sweet, and you never sleep anymore because you're house training a puppy, so you don't notice when the letter arrives in the mail telling you that you're on a short-term plan, but that it will automatically renew if you don't send a letter, and then, before you know it, they have access to your direct deposit, and they own you. It sucks.)Well, my dog passed away right before last Thanksgiving, and the pet insurance company has not only spent six months taking monthly payments out of my checking account for a policy on a dead dog, but also continually ignores my current claim related to his passing. I have sent the same faxes three and four times over, my veterinarian has threatened to never recommend their policies ever again, and I call and call and call.However, despite all this, what annoys me most is the way that they try to "handle" me on the phone. Every time I call, a customer service agent asks me what happened to my dog. Now, we all know that they know exactly what happened to my dog. They are staring at the computer screen with my claim for euthanasia on it. (In all of my experience, euthanasia has never been a go-to topic for fun and laughs.) But, they make me tell them anyway because I know that they're hoping to move me away from anger and frustration to sadness.What they need to learn is that this will never happen.Just today, I am on a double dose of Tylenol Allergy/Sinus because I can't breathe through my nose, my last paid writing gig was researching trivia about the state of Florida for middle school students, I haven't been on a date in the year of 2006, my downstairs neighbor thinks that everyone wants to hear trance music or Reba McEntire's "Fancy" at all hours of the day and night, and I am doing laundry at my parent's house in an airbrush t-shirt that says "Live the Dream" while watching "Yes, Dear."There's no way Petcare Pet Insurance is going to be the one that breaks me. If I find a reason to cry, I guarantee you that my pet insurance company won't be it.And, considering that I had to fight back the urge to tell one rep that "I would end him" this afternoon, I really do hope for all of our sakes that this matter is cleared up soon.

Truth in Voicemail

A message only a member of my family would leave:"Laurel, it's your sister. I hear that Britney Spears just had a baby boy...Call me when you know more."

Obligations

Well, it seems that during my Birmingham absence, I was appointed as a co-chair to one of the allet-bay uild-gay's committees. (The allet-bay uild-gay is a "social and philanthropic" organization with the primary function of putting on a debutante ball and allowing grown women the opportunity to wear formal gowns and white gloves ten years after those items should have been safely stowed away in their respective attics. Please refer to previous posts for more information. Also, the allet-bay uild-gay takes itself very seriously, so I have cloaked them in the anonymity of pig Latin to try and escape any personal repercussions for revealing our secrets and inner workings. If you've seen "The Skulls," I'm sure you understand.)Anyway, I'm now the co-chair of the newsletter committee - which is probably the best committee for me to be a part of. After all, I like to write and edit. For a few shining moments after I learned the news, I thought this could finally be my chance to get excited about something involving the allet-bay uild-gay.I was so naive.It turns out that my only responsibility as co-chair of the newsletter committee is to address the newsletters before they're mailed out. Yep, I just have to stick on the labels. I doubt that I can even be trusted to go to the post office. That's probably chairman stuff - not co-chair stuff. There's no writing. There's no brainstorming. There's no content review.And, most of this would be fine for me, except for one little thing. I now quote the newsletter they have put my name on, "The Ball was a huge success impart due to your generous contributions to Friends of the Ballet..."Impart?!?! Impart rather than "in part"?!?!? This is what they included me on?!?! This?!?! Honestly, for a girl who proofreads menus and other signs without even realizing it, this is truly painful.It makes me wonder if this assignment was really some kind of punishment. Does the allet-bay uild-gay hate me? I mean, I don't know why they would dislike me so. What, with my outright mockery of the organization, "relaxed" work ethic, and refusal to do anything in the morning, you'd think that I would make the perfect member.And, what makes this really awful is knowing that I will never be allowed to copy edit the newsletter before it goes out. Even mentioning this mistake will probably be considered an act of insubordination or be greeted with the ever-familiar, "Oh, who cares anyway? No one notices those things. Let's just go ahead and send it out."Who cares? I care. I notice. I don't like having my name on gross misuses of the English language. It hurts me. It hurts me deeply. I can sense the eyes of all my professors on me - and they're judging eyes.The allet-bay uild-gay has struck again. When will I learn that they only hurt me?

Under the Weather

I don't have much to say today because I woke up around 4:00 a.m. with the beginnings of a massive cold. On the plus side, all of the head congestion means that I can barely hear the trance music emanating from my downstairs neighbor's apartment. Unfortunately though, the flip side of that is that my own chewing seems ridiculously loud and overly intrusive to my enjoyment of "One Life to Live."And, speaking of chewing, I couldn't remember if it's "starve a cold, feed a fever" or "feed a cold, starve a fever," so I just ate half a bag of cool ranch Doritos. (That's a decision that seemed much more reasonable before the cold medicine started to wear off.)Also, I think my cable guy might think that I'm mildly retarded or struggling with a crystal meth addiction. When he knocked, he woke me up from my Nyquil-induced coma, so it was 1:00 in the afternoon, my hair had an odd spiked look, and my answer to every conversation starter he tried was "Uh-huh."Of course, when I finally got past my mono-syllabic uttering, our interaction culminated in me talking to myself out loud while the poor cable guy tried to escape."So, do I have DVR now?""No, but I can get it for you. It's just a different box.""Cool, that would be great...But, you know what, I don't need DVR. I'll be fine...Or, maybe I do need DVR. It would be convenient. And, I wanted to record something tonight..Nah, I don't need it. It seems silly...""Uh, ma'am? I've got to go, but you can just call the office when you make up your mind."

Yet Another Excellent Reason I Never Should Have Pursued a Career in Professional Sports

(Obviously, the first and best reason is my complete lack of talent. The second would be my fear of balls, bats, golf clubs, etc. and the tendency to duck and scream like a little girl when any such apparatus comes near me. But, we'll have to put all that aside for the sake of the following discussion. Join me in what I do best - let's fantasize about a completely different reality than the one at hand despite all logic and accepted norms.)Lately, I've been training Cassidy to go off her leash when we're out but still obey basic commands. The main reason for this is that I want to be able to play fetch with her. (Living in an apartment, we require dog parks and other such open areas to play fetch. Otherwise, my lamps are in danger.) And, fetch is by far my favorite game. I like the exertion disparity. I stand; Cassidy runs furiously back and forth. She's tired and needs a nap, and I manage to avoid exercise for one more glorious day.Anyway, we're playing fetch when I realize that every time I throw the ball, I'm actually saying "whoosh" out loud with each toss.I know we're talking about me here, and I should have the answer, but what is that about?The only person I could be talking to is myself. It's not like "whoosh" is in my dog's vocabulary. Am I so worried that my throws are pitiful, I add sound effects to try and give them some oomph? Do I just like the way the word sounds? Have I become one of those people who can't help themselves from talking out loud despite how nutty it sounds to anyone passing by?And, the worst part is that I didn't even notice I was saying "whoosh" until five or so minutes into the game. Can you even imagine what I would be like if I was involved in regular sports competition? I could probably put Monica Seles to shame. Plus, since "whoosh" isn't exactly what most Americans would add to a game of fetch with their dog, I think we can pretty much assure that my guttural noises would be weird. I'd probably even end up like Steve Carell from "The 40 Year Old Virgin" and espouse the names of current pop stars when in distress.I think it's safe to say that the broadcasters would not be kind. And, as for my nickname? I don't even want to think about it.I'm just so relieved I chose a different path...

Out and About

I'm not going to lie - yesterday was a fat day. And as many people know, and the rest of you will now learn, when women feel fat, we often shop for shoes to make ourselves feel better. Unless you're pregnant and suffering from all sorts of hormonal shifts, the foot is usually the one part of your body that doesn't change sizes. Most people don't need "fat shoes" and "skinny shoes." We just have shoes. And, on many days, such as yesterday, that's a Godsend.It is incredibly dangerous to wander into any other sort of store on a fat day. I made the mistake of going into Old Navy. (Embarrassing truth be told, I was looking for clothes for my dog. Shopping for my dog is the other thing I do on fat days. But, when I actually had the thought that none of Old Navy's offerings were "girly enough," I knew I was not myself and high-tailed it out of there.) However, during my brief time there, yesterday was the only time anyone has every tried to help me in Old Navy, and I knew something was up. Salespeople can smell low self-esteem like a dog can smell fear. Before you know it, they've talked you into trying on many, much-too-trendy and not-your-color clothes because they sense your desperate need for validation. Eventually, they'll start throwing items on the pile without even asking because they know if they give you one little compliment about looking thin, you'll be trapped in their clutches and their commission will go up because you can't fight that icky feeling that comes with realizing one of your skirts doesn't fit the way it did last week. ("Yes, yes, you do want the camouflage-patterned bolero jacket with accompanying skinny scarf" [insert maniacal laugh with devilish finger wiggling here] "You are mine, insecure shopper!")Anyway, let's get back to the shoes. Normally shoe shopping is of little stress to me. I like closed toe. I like open toe. I like a whole array of shoe colors. But, I do not, my dear friend, like the peep toe. You see, my second toe is much longer than my big toe. And, by much longer, I mean much longer. (My mother says that means I'll be rich someday. I think she made that up, but I like it. Although, obviously, the way things are going, "rich" is a long way off. I'd be happy with "subsistence level.") And, when I put on a peep toe shoe, the only toe peeping out is my abnormally long second toe. If you don't believe me, reference the photo. And, believe me when I say that it's actually must worse in person. Fat day shoe shopping was not going the way I wanted. I was about to give up hope when I found a $12.49 deal on these little suede numbers ($12.49!), and my sense of calm returned.So, I celebrated with a burrito. Was this counterproductive to the source of my morning malaise? Absolutely, but at least being well-nourished and having new shoes allowed me to escape my funk and lessened my desire to rip the head off anyone giving the once over to my cargo pant and loose tank outfit combo or rear end the Honda SUV with "KUKARAT" as a vanity plate. (What the hell could that mean? Why would you unleash such a word/letter combination on the world? It's not right.)Can you believe I ever run errands considering how stressful it all is? Don't even get me started on the dry cleaners...(On this particular post, I told my spell checker to learn the word "burrito." I know it's necessary. Considering my loves, that word is going to come up often, but I think that action might have been a setback from the shoe purchasing high.)

War Eagle!

Cassidy is officially ready for the new season.(Yes, I know that I have too much free time.)

Browsing for Bargains

As usual, I was wondering through the Dollar Tree on Friday when I stumbled upon this little gem...And, no, you're not seeing things. This is in fact a "rock painting kit" complete with a shrink-wrapped, gray, fake rock. (How this ended up in the discount store is beyond me.)However, the more I looked at the rock painting kit, the more I realized that this is not as much a toy as it is an indicator that Mommy has a severe drinking problem.Let's consider the options: Either (A) Mommy has a hangover so bad, she's willing to give you money for ANYTHING, and I'm pretty sure a rock painting kit is the rock bottom of ANYTHING, so that you and your siblings will be quiet and stop complaining about the fact that she never spends time with you, always smells a little like cherry cough syrup, and you don't remember what color her eyes are anymore because they're always behind sunglasses, (B) Mommy was "too tired" to take you to the store, and the only other person willing to let you spend Daddy's hard-earned money on crap like this is one of Mommy's drinking buddies who you have to call "Aunt Honey," but the truth is Mommy only knows her from the one bar open until 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, and "Honey" probably isn't her real name, but Mommy can't be expected to remember details like that once she's had more than three whiskey sours, or (C) You don't actually have the official "rock painting kit" because Mommy didn't "feel well enough" to get to the register, but the next day when you want to watch TV, she tells you to go out in the yard with her eye liner and your imagination while she stays in the still, silent cloister of her bedroom with all of the curtains drawn.Of course, I could be imagining things, but I don't think I'm all that far from the truth on this one.

I think my upstairs neighbor got a ferret while I was away. Either that, or he has taken to scurrying across the floor.Neither option makes me happy.

Late Night Dining

Saturday night, I went to Auburn's first football game of the season in Auburn. Auburn is about two hours from Birmingham, and the game didn't kick off until 6:45, so it was a late night drive back.A little after ten at night, a friend and I decided to stop for food. (They don't take credit cards at the concession stands, and there were no ATMs inside the stadium. Most people probably expect this - I didn't. I spent most of the second half very hungry.) I also didn't want anything fried, so we decided to give the Subway in Alexander City a try.As we walked up, a Subway worker was standing behind the locked door. We assumed that the Subway was closed, since most of them don't stay open very late, but then we saw that the sign actually said that the store was open until midnight. And, as we got closer, she eventually unlocked the door and invited us in.(After this kind of lead-in, we should have known that things were going to be weird.)The moment we stepped through the door, the girl working at Subway started to tell us her saga, "Oh God y'all. Ok, y'all don't look creepy. Come on in. I'm only 16, and they left me up here all alone for the night. I was getting so scared. My imagination was running wild. I was gonna get my Momma to come up here, but she has to work too, so instead I just decided to put my two day notice in. I've been baking bread all night and hiding in the back because I did not want to be here by myself..."After explaining herself (which I completely understood, but I was still very, very hungry), she did actually allow us to place an order, but we could only have turkey or ham. She didn't have enough chicken or much cheese. (And, as another little note, I don't really think she knew how to bake bread because most of my sandwich was kind of mushy.)While she made our sandwiches, she went on to tell us how much she hated Subway and about all of the other places she might want to find a job.As we got to the check out, she told us that the drink machine was broken too, so all there was was flavored water. (I really don't like flavored water.) And, as I finally tried to pay her, thinking I would charge both meals to my card since this was not the time to ask for separate checks, she told me we could just go ahead and take everything "on the house" since she couldn't figure out the register either.(Note to Subway: broken drink machine, difficult register, lack of supplies - this might be why people don't leave sixteen year olds alone to run a store. And, yes, I think the personal safety aspect is fairly compelling as well.)Now, I love free stuff, and the free sandwiches certainly made up for the time delay and lack of decent drinks, but I still felt bad taking stuff from a disgruntled adolescent fast food worker who was terrified of being robbed. I asked if she was sure about this decision about three times before we left. (Also, a couple of her friends had arrived by then, so I felt better that she wasn't alone anymore.)But, it seems my dining companion didn't have any of the same concerns. When we got back to the car, I noticed he had grabbed chips, too."What?" he said. "If it's on the house, isn't it all on the house?"

Are You Sure You Want to Turn That Up?

Because of Labor Day weekend, I've had plenty of opportunities to listen to various countdowns on the radio over the past few days. Driving back and forth to Auburn and the lake gave me plenty of free time, too.Truth be told - song lyrics fascinate me. It's amazing how many horrible phrases, bad rhymes, and weird stories can find themselves into songs, but because there's a beat and a catchy tune, no one notices how strange the words are. (Word to the wise, this is also why it is never a good idea to quote song lyrics during romantic or other intimate moments. "Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways," sounds a hell of a lot better being belted out by Poison than it will when you try to express your remorse over a break up. Trust me - these things don't translate.)A nine-year-old would get an "F" if her or she rhymed "dresser" and "beretta" (as well as a probably well-deserved trip to the school counselor), but that's what R. Kelly does in "Trapped in the Closet: Chapter 1." And, let's consider the case of "Escape" by Rupert Holmes. Everyone enjoys "pina coladas and getting caught in the rain," but if you actually listen to the rest of the song, you realize it's about a man who decides to cheat on his partner, places a personal ad to do so, and then ends up arranging to meet his very own, also-wanting-to-cheat-via-personal-ad partner. What a crazy coincidence! Oh, more accurately, how creepy is that?!?! Do you still feel the same urge to sing along while car dancing now? As for unacceptable turns of the English language, don't even get me started on Fergie and her "lady lumps."Well, as I was driving down the interstate yesterday, I had the opportunity to hear "That Summer" by Garth Brooks for the first time in years. I like Garth Brooks, and I don't expect a whole lot from his lyrics. Sometimes, it's just fine to make everything simple and easy to understand. Also, I like the little stories in his songs. "That Summer" is about a teenager who goes to work on a ranch when the school year ends and has a tryst with an older woman.What I don't like is this - the song, as told from the perspective of the teen boy, states that the older woman "had a need to feel the thunder." Yes, those are the exact words. And, I'm sorry, but how freakin' ridiculous is that?!?! When you remove the music and have only lyrics, you get a sixteen-year-old boy who basically starts his junior year of high school telling all of his adolescent classmates about "this old chick who totally wanted me" and "how much she wanted to feel the thunder."I invite you to inject as much asinine body language as you want into that fantasy, so long as you come with me to the place where "That Summer" makes you want to laugh out loud rather than sing along.

Family Album

Well, it's Friday, and Friday seems like a good day to get nostalgic. So, in light of that, I decided to delve into the old Mills family photos, and now I bring you "just another evening in my childhood home." As Bread might say with their elegant and soulful crooning, "If a picture paints a thousand words," what do we have here?You'll notice that I (on the far right) am incredibly over-dressed for the occasion. My sisters are in pajamas and play wear, and I'm in a Sunday dress. (For a long time, I refused to wear pants because "ladies didn't wear pants." I would appreciate it if there were no comments on the many, many ways I've given up on "being a lady" since kindergarten.) It also seems that I have on some sort of heel or wedge shoe. And - then there's that tiara. It's probably not all that surprising that I loved small, rhinestone crowns as a child and liked to wear them whenever possible. What is unfortunate is that I often wore my little tiara to school, possibly forever cementing my place as a bit of a weirdo and the last one chosen for the kickball team. I even wore the tiara on picture day, so multiple yearbooks also provide proof of the "princess complex" I will never live down.As you can also see, Rachael (on the far right) bears an uncanny resemblance to Teddy, the middle son from "Terms of Endearment," but she's obviously a lot happier because her mother is not dying of cancer and her soon-to-be-deadbeat dad is not running around a variety of mediocre liberal arts colleges throwing himself at co-eds with unfortunate hair. Whatever is so funny that her naked Cabbage Patch doll must have its eyes covered, I don't know, and it seems to have caused some confusion at the time too since I'm staring at her and not the camera.By the way, the doll I'm holding was one that I saw on television and waited weeks for. (Hmmm, I liked infomercials even then...Interesting...) Do you remember how long 4 - 6 weeks was at that age? A few days after it finally came, there was a story on the news about how highly flammable the dolls were, and my doll had to go away. Sure, in hindsight I'd prefer not to have hideous burn scars and years of skin grafts caused by a doll who's only true selling point is the pink hair, but that is not the call I would have made back then.And, there in the middle, looking dazed and unsure of what she's been born into, is my youngest sister, Sarah. Maybe, as she's been claiming for years, she really is the only normal one...Just maybe...

A Rose is a Rose?

You know it's bad when you can no longer differentiate between your own internal monologue and reality. As such, I just spent the last fifteen minutes reviewing four months worth of blogs to make sure that I have not written on this same topic before, but, truthfully, there's no telling. So, if you've heard all of this before - sorry. And, if not, I suppose that's both good and bad for me - at least I have an original topic, but I really do spend way too much time in my own head.Anyway, I'm going to talk about my name. For those of you who don't know, my name comes from the novel "The Optimist's Daughter" by Eudora Welty. (There is an irony here that we'll discuss later.) And, since I am a Laurel and not a Lauren, Laura, or Laurie, it's not often that I encounter anyone else with my name. (Although, as a small child one of my cousins was named Lauren, and our great grandmother had Alzheimer's, so I do respond to many, many incarnations of "Laur," including the occasional L'Oreal, in an almost knee-jerk fashion.)It's also rare to find my name on television or in movies. There was briefly a Laurel on "All My Children," but I think she ended up killing her ex-husband and had to give her autistic daughter away before being sent to prison. Of course, most people had heard of Laurel as the skeptical, pot-smoking nurse sister in "Jerry Maguire." ( (A) The boyfriend of one of my college friend's would play the Bruce Springsteen "Secret Garden" song from the movie with pieces of the movie's dialogue spliced into it so that he could pretend that when Renee Zellweger was saying "I love him, Laurel," it was his girlfriend talking to me - they didn't make it, and (B) I hope that's the closest I ever get to Tom Cruise considering his behavior from the last year or so. I worry he would use those too white teeth to eat me because of my belief in psychiatry.) There's also a very unfortunate movie called "Sommersby" wherein Richard Gere plays opposite Jodie Foster's character Laurel. I can't even speak of it because trying to remember the incredibly awkward chemistry between those two only causes me pain.Of course, my favorite "Laurel on film" is in the made-for-television movie "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?" which, in addition to the awful, too-long title, features an incredibly over-bleached Tori Spelling from her 90210 days when she was in the abusive relationship with rock star Ray as Laurel. Can you top that? I think not.Well, my original point being that it is rare to meet another Laurel, when I was in the craft store yesterday (because I do those things), the cashier who ran my card said, "Oh, my daughter's name is Laurel, too."We chatted for a second. I told her I thought that was neat. (And, yes, I probably did actually use the word "neat." I become a different, less capable person in the confines of the craft store.)Then she said, "Yeah, I always hoped she'd meet a man named Hardy."I just tried to freeze my face then because I was sure whatever reaction I had would not be appreciated."Just kidding," she said. "But, I did always think of her as a Southern belle just waiting for her Confederate soldier to come home."Even though I was obviously relieved that the "Laurel and Hardy" couple was a joke, I just didn't know how to react to that one either. Maybe being in Chicago for two months ruined me because I forgot that it's still "ok" to mention the Confederacy like it's a good thing. Maybe I was surprised because I rarely think of myself as a Southern belle since the last time I stepped out of a hoop skirt at the age of seventeen. Mainly, I guess I just didn't think of my name as representing some sort of combo of these two things. It was weird, and I don't think I like it.So, from now on - I only answer to L'Oreal. After all, what could possibly be the connotations with that one...

The Moments I Live For?

This past weekend, my seven-year-old cousin and I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some snacks. As we were waiting in line to check out, she looked around at all of the glossy magazines near the register. (Maybe I should have been censoring what she can see, but my face was buried in "Soap Opera Digest" so that I could find out all of the "comings and goings" of my favorite stars without actually having to pay for the magazine. Reading and flipping pages that fast is quite the challenge, let me tell you, and therefore requires most of my focus.)After a few seconds, my cousin pointed to a picture of a celebrity and said, "I know her.""That's Jennifer Aniston. You've probably seen her on TV.""Oh, yeah," she responded, I suppose differentiating between people who have dinner at her house and people who are in the movies."She's pretty, isn't she?" I said. (My conversation skills are not the best when I still have one eye on the weekly recap of "General Hospital.")"She's not as pretty as you," she answered, showing the glorious innocence of children.And, while I know this comment is not true and is colored by familial love, it still didn't give the women behind us in line the permission to LAUGH OUT LOUD. And, it certainly didn't give her permission to still be laughing THREE MINUTES LATER.As Bill Cosby taught us, children say the darndest things, but I still don't think my cousin's comment warranted quite that much mirth. Plus, if I was in a similar position, I would at least have the courtesy to wait until I was in my car to crack up.It's the nice thing to do, and it means that I don't have to be obsessing over the incident four days later. After all, I have so much else to worry about...