Co-Habitation
Right now, I live next to Kobe, Maggie, and Ethel.Maggie and Ethel are the dogs, and Kobe is the (completely caucasian, female) landlord.As one of my co-workers pointed out, who would have thought that's the way those names would shake out?
The Joy of the HMO
Watching "House" tonight, I was reminded of - obviously, my undying love for Hugh Laurie - and my MRI. Yes, back when I was a senior in college, I had a very unfortunate run-in with a particularly rude set of stairs late one Saturday night and ended up in the emergency room that next Sunday morning with a bum arm. (I will let you infer what you want from that timeline.)But, they didn't really think that there was anything wrong with me in the emergency room, so they sent me home with a prescription for very intense Motrin and a splint. Three weeks and two doctors later, when my arm still hurt, I was in Sibley Hospital for an MRI.I don't know whether or not anyone reading this has ever had an MRI, but it's a very strange experience. Personally, as someone who doesn't really like anything to be out of the ordinary, knowing that you have to go into a room where the magnets are so powerful they'll rip jewelry off your body is, shall we say, unnerving. And, of course, there's still all that normal, awful hospital stuff like wearing nothing but a paper sheath and having to ask permission to use the restroom.At least I was lucky enough to have an open MRI, but I still wasn't pleased with the experience. It isn't exactly easy for me to stay perfectly still - even when the only part of me that has to remain motionless is my lower left arm. Plus, my doctor assured me that my MRI would only last for thirty minutes - at the most. But, of course, as doctors and other medical technicians can be prone to do, he fibbed. How do I know he didn't tell the truth, you might ask. After all, there aren't any clocks in the MRI room, and you certainly can't wear your watch during the test.The trick is to listen to the radio. I guess they're trying to entertain you with soft/classic rock (and, normally soft rock will entertain me), but when you're trapped in a large beeping machine, you're willing to count the number of songs playing just to pass the time. And, once you multiply that by 3 (figuring that songs are about 3 minutes apiece), you start to figure out just how long you've been trapped there.Once I had counted 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I decided to ask the technician how much longer I would be in there. The technician isn't in the room because of all the dangerous electric waves running around and such, but he can speak to you through the intercom system.(Actually, that's how I came to call him "voice in the sky." After my 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I did say, "Voice in the sky - how much longer?" But, I don't recommend such phrasing - I don't think he liked that.)And, of course, I don't mean to imply that you will actually be able to understand the answers that come through the intercom when you've finished posing your question. That would be too much to ask. I felt like I was talking to one of the grown-ups on "Peanuts."So, once I got no answers and suffered through 4 more songs, I decided it was time to start singing along to the soft/classic rock, primarily out of boredom and discomfort. Lucky for me and my technician, the song I picked up on was "Shook Me All Night Long."I can't say for sure if it was the end of the test or my tone deaf rendition of AC/DC that made the technician wrap up (my strange way of addressing him might have been a factor too), but at least I got out of that room shortly after I started singing.Unfortunately though, if it was the singing that ticked him off, he certainly had the last laugh - a week later, the MRI showed that I had a broken hand and I spent six weeks in a cast.
The Last One
In the final installment of "Laurel Meets Celebrities," I offer the following. (Sure, this trilogy is no "Die Hard," but at least it shows that my brain might still function following my move. And, by "meets," I obviously mean "might be in somewhat the same vicinity as.")After I graduated from high school, my parents took the family to Australia for our last "official" family vacation before I left the house. My aunt lives in Australia, so our trip was divided between a stay in Melbourne with her and my cousin, a trip to Cairns where we could snorkel on the Great Barrier Reef and visit the rainforest, and a few days in Fiji.Now, I'm sure that this trip sounds like heaven to most people, but, as a moody adolescent who was being forced to leave her boyfriend behind for two whole weeks, I was not so pleased by the time the trip came around. (They wouldn't even let me call him while we were gone. Can you imagine that sort of injustice/misunderstanding of the depths of our love? Sure, it would have cost the same amount as our hotel room to talk to him for five minutes, but is that really so much to ask? After all, they had only taken me halfway around the world for a once in a lifetime vacation, and I can so remember his last name looking back now. Geez...)And, if you think that little temper tantrum is bad, you should have seen my sisters and I when we arrived in Fiji to find out that there wasn't a single television set in the entire resort. (Wait, I take that back. There was one TV set. It was in the "auditorium" near the lobby, and if everyone in the hotel could reach a consensus by open voting, we could watch "Priscilla Queen of the Desert" or "Gallipoli" after dinner.)Well, the point is that on our way back from Fiji, we had a really long layover in L.A., so I decided to pick up a book in the airport store. (Little word of advice: Do not read "Kiss the Girls," about a psycho killing duo in the Duke woods, two weeks before going to live in a dorm room adjacent to said woods. That was one of many poor decisions during my late teens.)While I was standing in line to pay for the book that would be the stuff of my nightmares through November, Juliette Lewis got in line behind me.She is very short and helped convince me of the wonders that are stylists, makeup artists, and airbrushed photos.Sorry, Juliette. I really should be thanking you. I dread to think where my self-esteem would be without that moment of "Hollywood Reality."
The Long Awaited Tale
When I was in high school, they opened an amusement park in Birmingham. It was part of Birmingham's continuing "we're just as good as, if not better than, Atlanta" program and, in another strong pr move, the park was called "Visionland" because it represented the dream of a bigger and better Birmingham.It almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?Yes, Visionland was filled with wonders that it can be hard to find in your traditional amusement park. Sure, there was a log ride and a roller coaster, but there was only one of each of them. The other twelve or so rides in the park were kind of "filler." It was much more the kind of stuff you'd find at the state fair. I think you know what I'm talking about - the "haunted house" that involves a cart on a squeaky track and is only really scary because you never know if you'll get to see your parents again once the cart goes behind the beaded veil where you might or might not be abducted by a transient and forced to do awful, illegal child labor jobs on the really tall parts of the Ferris wheel while an obese chain smoker holds a diet of stale peanuts over your head or the "centrifuge" that kind of makes you want to vomit and most definitely keeps your mouth plastered to the side of your face long enough for uncontrollable drool to crystallize along your jaw line.I won't even bore you with the details of "Prospect Street" and "The Hopeful Kids Gang."Also, in another turn that I've never fully understood, Visionland was mostly staffed by visiting students from Iceland and other very cold, very dark European nations. It's rather strange to wander through a park and notice that the name tags on the staff either say, "Hi, I'm Emily from Gardendale" or "Hi, I'm Lars from Reykjavik." I can only imagine that something went very wrong in state/international politics and there's large debt and/or lax visa standards at stake.Anyway, when the amusement park opened, my friend got us advance tickets so we could go to the park the night before it opened, and, of course, we invited boys along.Now, as a Southern teenage girl, I always had high hopes for "the amusement park date." It probably had to do with the fact that I grew up on too much Lifetime and "General Hospital," but I couldn't help being a little giddy about the possibility of hand holding, snuggling up next to one another on the roller coaster, him winning me a stuffed animal while I ate cotton candy in an oh-so-delicate-and-playful way...Well, about the only part of that fantasy that happened was the hand holding (but, later, after we had left Visionland and there were fewer people to see us/cause him infinite embarrassment), but, as we were leaving the park, I kind of fell onto Richard Townsend.(As we all know, I'm just a klutz. I tripped on the sidewalk, and Robert Townsend helped me catch myself. At the time, it probably would have been best to ask why my boyfriend didn't bother to help me out, and maybe I could have salvaged the next three years of my dating life, but, bygones...)I said hi. (After all, I had seen "Meteor Man" and was a regular viewer of "The Parent 'Hood.") He said hi back.After he walked away, I looked at my friends and said, "Wow, that was Robert Townsend."That is also the moment when all of my friends just stared at me before Leah finally said, "Yeah...We don't know who that is," and we all went on with our lives.My brushes with fame really are quite amazing, aren't they?
In case no one noticed, Bob Barker announced his retirement from "The Price is Right" today.I think meeting a man named Laurel might have had something to do with it. I suppose after that, he really had seen it all.
What?!?!
Now, I was going to keep quiet today. I really was. But then something truly mind-boggling occurred, and I had to share it with the world. (And, by the "world," I obviously mean my three friends and an occasional lost internet tourist who was hoping for the other writing Laurel Mills who is a published poet and professor. Yeah - I don' t know what the big deal about her is either.)Anyway, I was watching "The Price is Right" (because that's what I put on the TV when it's 10:00 in the morning and I'm working from home and possibly also because I really am 65 years old on the inside) when, to my excitement, they called a "Laurel" out from the audience to contestant's row.And, of course, because of all the connotations I have with my name (please reference previous post "A Rose is a Rose" for further explanation), I was scanning the crowd for a lovely, rosy-cheeked lady. And, even allowing for the possibility of a scowling, filled-with-rage lady, I was still, above all else, expecting a lady.So, imagine my surprise when a fifty-year-old Asian man bounded out of his seat.Yep, the "Laurel" in question was a middle-aged man. And, before you ask, yes, he spelled his name exactly the same way I do. Hearing Bob Barker say my name over and over again to a dude was just too upsetting.I think I'm having identity issues.And, on a completely unrelated note, I always thought the word "diabetes" was pronounced die-a-bee-tees. Why, then, does Wilford Brimley continually say die-a-bet-ease? Have I been wrong all these years?I don't know whether or not I can stand pronunciation and identity issues all in the same day. It's a bit much.
Now, I know that I promised a story about Robert Townsend today, but, truth be told, I have movers coming, and I'm not quite ready for them.Check in tomorrow, and I'll be back to my old tricks again.
Seeing Stars
Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I had a brief brush with fame.When I was 17, like most everyone else, I had to go on the requisite "college trips." I'm sure we all remember the pain that that was - praying that your parents wouldn't ask stupid questions on the tour (you know, all of those ridiculous notions like, "is there a lot of drinking on the weekends?," "is it safe here?," "where are the bathrooms?"), feeling so embarrassed because all of the "adult" college kids are staring at you with your parents (because the only thing college kids care about is what the high schoolers touring their campus are doing), and then yelling at your mom not to stand too close to you in the bookstore while you pick up the requisite super cool college tee that you will casually wear to soccer practice on Tuesday like you might have just spent the weekend in a freshman's dorm room sneaking beers and staring at the magnificence of fuzzy posters under a black light, even though you really stayed in a hotel and shushed your mother whenever she asked questions during "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer."Well, in the fall of my senior year, my dad and I headed up to Providence, Rhode Island for the Brown, Tufts, and Dartmouth tour. And, because my dad tends to be not only thrifty on fares, but also prefers not to miss too much work, I think we had to be at the Birmingham airport around 5:30 in the morning.Even in high school, when I actually had to be somewhere by 8:00 a.m., I was not a morning person. So, needless to say, 5:30 a.m. was tough - especially when I knew I was going to spend the whole day ducking my head in shame and hiding behind my bangs every time my father looked in the direction of a college kid.Then, as my father and I approached the counter, I noticed something very strange in the waiting area for our flight......And that strange apparition was Little Richard.Now, if you think that man's head looks big on television, you have no idea how surreal it seems in person and at 5:30 a.m. pre-caffeine. I also have to say that of all the famous and semi-famous people I thought I might meet one day, Little Richard was not on the list, nor had he ever crossed my mind beyond that moment when he showed up at Bo and Nora's wedding on "One Life to Live" and got Nora to overcome her cold feet and boogie down the aisle towards her man.Little Richard is actually from Alabama in case you're wondering about his presence in the Birmingham International Airport. (By the way, don't dwell to long on the "international" in that title. It's mainly for show.)Anyway, the story ends like this: I waved and smiled at him. He smiled back and said hello. Then a member of his entourage (yes, he still warrants an entourage, and a seemingly large one at that) gave me a book about God and a postcard-sized, autographed photo of Little Richard. We all got on the plane, and I promptly fell asleep.Yes, that's my encounter with celebrity in all its glory. Tomorrow, I might tell you the story of me and Robert Townsend, but most people probably need a day to google that name and realize that he is, indeed, someone who has been in movies and on TV.
Week in Review
This has been a trying week.First of all, Tom Cruise not only wants to steal my psychotropic drugs, but my thunder as well. It is hard enough to share my birthday with the largest football rivalry in the state. Do you know how many people leave town to watch the game so that many years my celebration turns into 3 people sitting around a table in a nearly empty bar? Sure, someone usually thinks to bring a party hat, but that hardly makes up for the disparity in the crowd.And, now, TomKat has decided to get married on my birthday. Not only are our guest lists totally going to overlap, but for the rest of my life, I'll have to know that, not only am I aging, but also, somewhere in a Scientology compound far, far away, there's a strange anniversary celebration going on that probably involves the following exchange: "I love you for allowing yourself to be brainwashed into a fake religion and actually thinking I'm not gay." "I love you, too. Now, where's that tea I'm always drinking that makes me happy on the inside and insures how much I love watching kids play soccer?"And, then, someone I care for deeply was viciously attacked.Why did you have to pick on Michael, Rush? Why? Other than what I am sure are your flagging ratings, why?I have to let you know that Michael J. Fox was my first love. I adored him as Alex P. Keaton on "Family Ties." I once saw Courtney Cox in the County Seat jeans store at our local mall, and I totally freaked out because she got to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen "Back to the Future." And, as a child, I even wanted to be able to hear dog whistles so that I would have something in common with "Teen Wolf." (Odd wish - I know.) When I played Barbies, my dolls were not interested in Ken, but rather someone named Michael.I was serious about our love.And, I cried when Michael J. Fox went public with his diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. I admire his strength and determination in a situation where a lot of people would succumb to self pity.So, Rush, you've made me mad before, but you've really gone too far this time. Your next beef with Michael, you come looking for me. Mama don't like it when you go after her babies.
A Day in the Life
Since we all know that no one starts out on the top (and that beggars can't exactly be choosers), I recently wrote a piece for "Midwestern* Lady" magazine. And, not only was I writing for a magazine with "Lady" in the title, but I was assigned a piece about cheese straws. (For those of you who aren't Southern, a cheese straw is like a spicy cheese cracker, but its shape is more tubular.)For some of you who are already thinking this, when I told a co-worker that I was going to freelance for "Midwestern Lady," she kind of cocked her head to the side and asked, "Have they met you?" When I answered no, she said that I "should probably keep it that way."Anyway, I got a contract and some info in the mail from "Midwestern Lady" prior to beginning the article. "Midwestern Lady" informed me that they did not have any of the contact info to interview the owners of the cheese straw company, but I could probably call the magazine "Midwestern Woman" which had recently featured an article on them, and ask for those details. The 500 word article from "Midwestern Woman" was photocopied and included in the mailing to help me with my 500 word article for "Midwestern Lady."So, not only was I writing for "Midwestern Lady" magazine, but "Midwestern Lady" was the poor man's version of "Midwestern Woman" and proved it by ripping off story ideas from them.That was a low moment - a moment in which I was so glad that I spent so much time in school earning bachelor's and master's degrees.But, rather than calling "Midwestern Woman" magazine, oh-so-resourceful-me used a crazy thing called the world wide web, and found a phone number for the cheese straw makers. What follows is a pretty accurate excerpt from the most awkward interview ever:Me: So, what is your favorite part about running the company?Cheese Straw Lady (CSL from here on out): Well, I guess that's doing something different every day. You know, I'm not always in the office. Sometimes I'm on sales calls. Sometimes I'm at food shows.Me: I guess you could say you like being your own boss? (Polite chuckle on my part to build a friendly rapport)CSL: Well, I don't really know about that. I've never actually had a boss because I started this business right after I graduated college, so I can't really say I know what it's like to have a boss versus being the boss...I don't think I can comment on that.My internal monologue: Thank you for your humorless response to what was supposed to be more a rhetorical question/summation of your answer.Me (Aloud this time and trying to move on quickly): And, what's the hardest part about running your own business? (I ask this in the hopes that there will be something to inspire all of the other women out there thinking about starting their own companies or taking a new idea and running with it.)CSL: Oh, that's definitely the Health Department. They have so many rules when you're starting a food business. I can't tell you how many times they came out to the bakery before we got off the ground. There were just so many regulations...My internal monologue again: And, if those aren't the insightful words of a savvy businesswoman, I don't know what are.Even though I didn't get a whole lot from my interview that I couldn't have learned from the company's website, I turned my article in.A few weeks after my deadline, I got a call from the editors of "Midwestern Lady" telling me that my piece might need a few more edits because it was a little bit "edgy" for their publication. I, for one, had no idea it was possible to be "edgy" when writing about cheese straws, but I guess I was wrong.I turns out that I had to remove the term "Bloody Mary" from the article because alcohol mentions are "frowned upon." Even though the editors agreed that it was "certainly true" that cheese straws were usually served with the old Bloody, they didn't want to "push the boundaries."But, I think what really got them is the last paragraph I used to try and spice things up a bit.Here's the original draft: "Of course, any true cheese straw fan has one burning question for the ladies of the bakery, "I could tell you, but I would have to kill you," Kelley jokes, referring to how they make those familiar squiggles on the cheese straws. "We would really hate for that secret to get out," she says.""Yeah," the editor said, "I know that it's a joke and all...and it's a great joke (don't worry - I know this is not true)...but I just don't think we should mention murder here. It might scare some people."Ah, yes, because I was obviously implying that the women of a small commercial bakery were willing to hunt you down like dogs in the street should anyone figure out the "big secret" of how to put a squiggle pattern on a cheese straw. I naively turned the tone of the piece from readers imagining a sweet, rotund woman baking at home to a hardened Mafia wife who chain smokes and spits on the street while glaring at small children.For shame. I guess I really should have known better.[* Names and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect professional relationships. After all, when it's dignity or rent money - I have to go with rent money.]
Road Trip
I'm sure there are people who have lovely things to say about the Red Roof Inn...Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.Last night I had the pleasure/karmic punishment from one of my past sins like coveting Nicole Kidman's wardrobe or having impure thoughts about David Boreanaz of staying in the Red Roof Inn before my morning meeting in Nashville.Now, maybe I would have had a better experience if I hadn't chosen the Red Roof Inn right next to the highway. (I also think we all know how difficult it is to book a hotel room online, especially with a limited budget and lack of familiarity with the city. I liked that internet special and proximity to the office. I knew my own laziness would come back to haunt me one day, but how could my love of bargains get me in so much trouble? It's not like I was trying to buy a Gucci off the back of a truck or anything.) And, while some people might enjoy the lull of semis moving down the interstate well into the early hours of the morning, I found it a tad nerve-racking.Then there was no Lifetime or Bravo in the cable offerings. Is a girl supposed to make it through without a "Project Runway" marathon or reruns of the "Golden Girls"? The in-motel channel kept telling me to push the "menu" button on the remote for happiness (no joke), but I'm pretty sure that for most Red Roof patrons, happiness = porn, and I wasn't up for that. When I want my Estelle Getty, nothing else will do.(Now, I'd like to go on with my story, but this is the point where my father needs to stop reading so that he won't have a heart attack. I got my sense of worry/vigilance honestly. Daddy - remember that I'm home safe now and do have a slight tendency to exaggerate. Also - seriously - stop reading.)A little bit later, there was a phone call to my room at 1:00 in the morning by someone looking for Mohammad in what I can only assume is miscommunication over a drug deal, and I think I saw a man talking to a couple of "working girls" in the parking lot. (Either that, or they were just underage and looking for a crystal meth hook up. Who can tell these days?)I'm just thankful for deadbolts.
Weekend Woes
Question: How do you know when you've watched too much Lifetime? (And, yes, even for me this can happen.)Answer: When Sarah Chalke actually shows up in your dreams (because you've seen that commercial for "Why I Wore Lipstick to my Mastectomy" too many times), and, as if that isn't bad enough, in your dream she's killing old people for their homes and social security checks. (I know, I know - I didn't think lovely Elliot from "Scrubs" and the former second Becky from "Roseanne" was capable of such maliciousness either, but after watching "Single White Female 2: The Psycho," I realize that danger lurks everywhere.)(As another side note, "Single White Female 2" is not nearly as enjoyable once you get a sense of deja vu/carefully repressed memories moving dangerously towards the surface during some of the scenes. I once had a roommate go out and get my haircut. In a word? Awkward.)Also, in another bit of oddness/it's amazing what you'll find interesting when your entire day consists of watching Lifetime, one of the movies focused on 2 characters named Laurel and Susan. Now, Susan is the only person I know who can watch as much Lifetime as me, and, strangely enough, in proof of what is the true kismet and symbiotic nature of our friendship, the last time I realized that I had watched too much Lifetime, I was with Susan, and we both reached our "television for women" saturation point at the same moment.You see, Susan and I have spent many of our hangover days lying about the house with Lifetime on - usually I'm digging Doritos crumbs out of my bed from Susan's 4 a.m. snack and she's reminding me that no boy should ever see my yarn collection before the 7th date because otherwise, between that and the dog sweaters, he'll probably run away screaming. Sometimes we head out for a strange combination of Sonic tater tots, Captain Dee's hush puppies, and Taco Bell soft tacos, and sometimes we don't.Anyways, on one of said days, we were in the midst of "Bella Mafia" (a truly horrible film starring Jennifer Tilly, Vanessa Redgrave, Nastassja Kinski, and James Marsden as a very odd sociopath/incest-lover) when we both lost our will to live.I don't know if it was James' desperate attempts to make out with his mother, grandmother, and cousin, the presence of a wheezing pre-teen albino who was never fully explained by the script, or, oh yeah, the fact that it was 4 FREAKIN' HOURS LONG, but we still refer to that as "Black Tuesday."It was months before we could even flip past the channel without cringing.Luckily, we powered through for our annual celebration of Meredith Baxter-Birney, but it wasn't easy.(Since asides are my thing today, I feel the need to add that, although "Bella Mafia" is atrocious and is best avoided at all costs, the Lifetime movie neither Susan nor I can condone in any way, shape, or form, is "Danielle Steel's The Ring" wherein Nastassja Kinski plays the widow of a Nazi who lies about being Jewish to get a guy's attention in post-war America. Now, that's just wrong.)
A Trip to Party City
Two things are weighing on me today:1. When did the word "sequel" stop meaning a continuation of the story (as in the incredible "Die Hard" trilogy, "Father of the Bride 2," and, from what I hear although I've never actually seen any of them, the "Star Wars" films), and start referring to a re-telling of the same story with a smaller budget and less credible dialogue (as in "Bring it On Again," "Cruel Intentions 2," and "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer")?2. When I'm going to boil water, I always run the water hot before adding it to the pot, and when I'm going to make ice cubes, I always run the water cold before filling the tray. Although these actions seem intuitive and logical, I doubt they make any significant difference to either boiling or freezing water. Is it possible that the temperature of water pre-boiling or pre-freezing makes either process go any faster whatsoever?I know these questions sound rhetorical (like when I ask why LeeLee Sobieski is still allowed to make films or if Lindsay Lohan actually thinks that people buy this "exhaustion" excuse for a bad hangover), but they're not. Any answers/thoughts would be greatly appreciated.
Hidden Dangers
Last week, I had to send out a rather dire S.O.S. out to my sister because I had eaten too much candy corn. (My tummy hurt. There was moaning. It seemed like a good time to call my sister and complain. After all, she spends her life gutting houses in post-Katrina New Orleans or living in a house without electricity while she helps out with organic farming in Rhode Island, and I devote myself to the CSI franchise and the consumption of chips and salsa.)Her natural response was, "How much candy corn is too much candy corn?"And, that got me thinking.Before "the incident," I never even considered that there could be too much candy corn. (In a bad way that is. Before last Thursday, anyone claiming to have "too much candy corn," would have been my new best friend. "Too much candy corn? That sounds like too much fairy dust or too many children's dreams.")Thinking back, I'm pretty sure that the actual candy corn kernels didn't do me in. (You know what I'm talking about - the triangular, tri-colored pieces. While it might not have been the best idea to mix the white, orange, and yellow ones with the white, orange, and brown ones - based on past experience, I think my stomach can tolerate that.) What I think was the coup de grace, if you will, was the candy corns that are miniature little pumpkins. And, while I love the candy corn pumpkins most of all, I have concluded that it probably isn't the best idea to consume piece after piece of what are basically lumps of corn syrup and sugar-like chemicals. Even thinking about "the truth of candy corn" kind of makes me feel a little bit sick all over again.In short, beware of seasonal treats. There really can be too much of a good thing.
Work is Good
Well, what I learned yesterday is that even though I thought I had reached a truly frightening point in my daytime existence (please reference previous post about involvement in soap plot lines and affection for syndicated game shows), I wasn't anywhere close to rock bottom.Sometime yesterday afternoon (probably in the lull between "One Life to Live" and "General Hospital"), I went outside. Now, I'm not sure where to begin painting this scene, so bear with me as the details unfold...I went outside because I wanted to put some pumpkins I had recently carved on the stoop for everyone to enjoy so we could all embrace the holiday spirit. (I don't know when I became fifty on the inside, but it happened. Also, as a little tidbit, I am freakishly good at carving pumpkins, so I tend to spend way too much time doing it in the month of October. I don't do faces. I tend to have huge spiders in their webs, skeletons, bats leaving a haunted house, etc. And, to defend myself, I can't play sports and I'm tone deaf so I don't run, throw/catch balls, or sing. Some people get to shine on the soccer field or inside a karaoke bar. I have pumpkins. Just let me be.)I was also wearing a green velour track suit because I haven't done my laundry in awhile, so there's the uni-color faux sport-style dressing to consider. And, I had Cassidy with me, and she goes off her leash in the yard in front of my apartment building, so she was running around me in circles (dressed in her own Halloween-themed hooded sweatshirt from Target) while I decided the best way to arrange my pumpkins.And, of course, this would also be the moment when my downstairs neighbors returned from their lunch, and I had to let them know that their dog had somehow gotten out of their apartment over the weekend. (After we all looked at my handiwork, naturally.)Could I have looked and/or sounded more like the neighborhood busybody with nothing better to do with her days? As I discussed with a friend of mine, I'm actually kind of hoping they think I'm an unwed mother so at least all of my idle day time and disconnect from reality could be blamed on a baby.If I start talking about starting a Neighborhood Watch anytime soon, I want someone to intervene. I promise that it will be for my own good.
Monday
I think we should all be glad that I'm returning to full-time, all day work soon.On Wednesday, not only was I looking forward to watching all of "General Hospital," but I also squealed with joy during one of the big reveals. Yep, I squealed. Now, I have always had a problem with excessive clapping. (You know, I clap when they sing "Happy Birthday" in a restaurant whether I'm at the table with the celebrants or not, and last year I had a particularly embarrassing moment when I clapped during the televised Emmys after Megan Mullally and Donald Trump sang the theme song to "Green Acres." Does anyone clap while watching an awards show on television? Apparently, I do. And, of all things, was the Trump/Mullally musical number worth a round of applause even if I had been in the audience? I think not.) But, I have never had an issue with girly, out-loud squealing (post the age of 12 when it was time for someone to call a boy on the phone during a sleepover) until now.I really don't think I should be this invested in who the father of Elizabeth Spencer's baby is.And, right now, it has been ten minutes since "Family Feud" ended, and I'm still bothered that Rick lost $20,000 for his family by responding to the "name a playful animal" prompt with "beaver."Beaver? Seriously? I may be a clapping, soap-opera-loving freak, but I still wouldn't say "beaver" on national television unless it was absolutely necessary. And, I certainly wouldn't say it when I was 13 points away from the big money.(Really, it's going to be good when I go back to work and these aren't the primary issues that plague my day.)
You Know it's October
Too Much Television
It has been suggested before that maybe I shouldn't watch any of the "Law & Order" franchise. After all, I can be a bit "alert" when it comes to issues of personal safety and crime. I won't walk my dog on a certain route after dark because there's a dumpster there, and I don't want to make it easy for someone to attack me and quickly get rid of my body. (Why should psychos have it easy?) I also won't get gas or use an ATM after dark, and the idea of keeping a taser gun in my glove compartment has certainly passed through my mind. I check the back side of my car before climbing in, I live on the second floor of my building because of the window/break-in issues with a first floor, and when I worked at the bank, I made it clear to anyone who would listen that should they ever choose my line to hold up, I would hand over any and everything I could, probably without ever touching a panic button, because my life meant much, much more to me than their money.In short, I have enough to worry about without introducing crime dramas into the picture.However, usually I can't get enough of my "Law & Order." I really want Jesse L. Martin to be my platonic male best friend. (I think he would smile at me and agree to sing old love songs whenever I went through a particularly painful break-up.) Sam Waterston looks like my dad. Mariska L. Hargitay, even though we got off to a rough start when you were Anthony Edwards' girlfriend on "ER," I've come to love you, too. And, I've developed some odd crushes on Christopher Meloni and Vincent D'Onofrio lately. (I suppose, if you're as concerned about violence as I am, what could be better than falling for a sympathetic, yet brilliant police officer? I'm working on my issues.)Unfortunately though, I might have finally overdone the "Law & Order" last night. It was the "SVU" marathon - of course - and there was a story about a rapist who stalked speed dating groups. And, also of course, I only recently went through speed dating for the first time myself.(Speed dating is another story for another day, but I will say that it confirmed what I have always known, and that is that dating is entirely awful. Rather than strengthening my resolve "to get back out there," having sixteen bad dates in one evening literally made me sad that I had foregone an evening with my dog, "Cold Case," and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food for the experience.)Anyway, after watching a story about a rapist who met his victims at speed dating, I didn't sleep so well. I think my well-meaning friends might have been right all along.But, what I also found interesting is that this is the episode that finally broke me. Not the ones with gruesome mob murders. Not the random convenience store hold-ups. Not the psychotic jilted boyfriends, stalkers from the coffee shop, or schizophrenics that attack innocent by-standers on public transportation.Nope, it was Dean Cain as a speed dater that got me.I think it must have been the trauma of speed dating combined with the build-up of a "Law & Order: SVU" marathon that really did me in. Even though Dean Cain played Scott Peterson, honestly, he's just not that great of an actor. If he's enough to scare me all on his own, I'm an even bigger wuss than I thought... And I already knew I was a big baby.
My Weekend Errands
So, yesterday when I was at the Super Target, it also happened to be free sample day. (Don't forget that this is the Super Target, so there's a grocery store in there in addition to all of the housewares, Halloween costumes, and women's active wear. Also, I might or might not have gone shopping just because I knew it was free sample day - you'll have to come to your own conclusions on that one.)And, as I was wandering through the aisles, I came upon the Slim-Fast meal bar stand right next to the woman with Ghirardelli dark chocolate squares, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about this odd organizational choice since.Are you supposed to see the chocolate first, and right after you bite in look over to the diet products and feel overwhelmed with guilt so that you must have both products? Does the chocolate make you realize that you've been having way too much of that stuff lately, so you buy lots of Slim-Fast vowing to finally start that diet you made a New Year's Resolution about? (You're going to ignore "Soap Opera Digest" at the register too. This is willpower.) Or, maybe the diet products shame you, and frustrated with yourself, you give in to the wonderful comforting power of chocolate and end up with the "family size" pack even though you know you're going to be the only one eating it?It makes no sense to me, but I imagine some consulting or marketing genius is behind the move, and I want to know what the rationale is.Personally, I skipped the Slim-Fast and went straight to the Ghirardelli lady without any sense of shame or personal defeat. I like to think of this as a sign, not of my lack of impulse control, but rather as an indication that the weight-obsessed media and numerous images of Nicole Richie haven't gotten me down.I'm just that strong - try not to be in awe.