"Something Old, Something New Orleans," Flower, Summer 2009
A wedding feature. Download Flower
"One Life to Live," Lipstick, February 2009
A personal essay on soap operas and relationships.
Avoiding The Hangover
I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.
However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.
Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.
Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?
Doug: Sounds perfect.
Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?
Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room.
Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:
Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?
Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.
Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.
Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?
Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.
Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?
Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!
Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?
Woman 1: He was special.
Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?
Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.
Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...
And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.
An Argument With History
Florence, Alabama is home to the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the state of Alabama. (Don't worry. This is my last Florence-themed post. Sometimes I can't help myself I have so much to say.) The Wright-Rosenbaum house is also one of only 60 Frank Lloyd Wright houses open to the general public. And, I was already in Florence, so I figured why not take a tour.
The Wright-Rosenbaum house is under 3,000 square feet, so there's not a ton to see, but because it was a Tuesday, and I think our tour guide was bored, the SO and I got a private guided tour that lasted over an hour. (Such details aren't for everyone ...) If I was better at math, I could let you know how much time was spent on each inch of the house. Since I'm not a numbers gal, I'll just estimate that our tour guide left no stone unturned in his description of the home.
I loved being able to see a piece of architectural history. I also like anything that makes me feel smarter, so learning details about Frank Lloyd Wright, Florence history and details of the home was a great time for me. But, what I really took away from the tour is that I could never have had a Frank Lloyd Wright home.
I didn't know about Frank Lloyd Wright's very controlling (and often egotistical) ways. This is how I would imagine our encounters:'
Meeting #1
Me: I really think I need more closet space in the master bedroom.
Darkness and stares from Frank Lloyd Wright.
Me: Maybe a walk-in?
FLW: If you don't like the closets I've provided, what you need is fewer clothes.
Meeting #2
Me: These doors seem small. How big are they?
FLW: 22 inches wide [this is the real number from the Wright-Rosenbaum house].
Me: Honey, my family is Southern. We like the fried foods. I don't think this is the best long-term plan.
More darkness and stares from FLW: I can fit through them, so everyone should be able to.
Meeting #3
Me: I think this chair would look better on the other side of the living room.
FLW: I already bolted it to the floor.
Until the tour, I had no idea that Frank Lloyd Wright wrote contracts preventing occupants of his homes from acquiring new furniture, rearranging rooms or putting art on the walls without his approval. (He didn't like art because his home was the art.) And I didn't make up that detail about him bolting furniture to the floor so that it wouldn't be moved. I don't think Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have even made it to three meetings before the relationship imploded. Pardon the third person, but if Laurel's paying, Laurel gets what she wants.
Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have been like oil and water -- or like matching poles of a magnet that repel each other rather than attract. There can only be one lead dog, after all.
All photos by the great Arik Sokol.
You'll Have to Take my Word on This One
Now, I know this doesn't count as a celebrity sighting, but I swear that while I was in Florence, I saw the Gorton's fisherman.
I was in Swamper's, the hotel bar and lounge, and a local musician was on stage. The SO and his partners in crime were filming guests enjoying their drinks and fans listening to the music. I looked over towards the bar and saw an older gentleman with a short mess of gray hair and a beer in front of him. He was also wearing -- no joke -- a yellow rain jacket that ran down to his knees.
(I would have taken a picture for the sake of authenticity and verification, but I didn't think the SO would appreciate my taking photos of hotel patrons that look like popular trademarks for my own amusement while he was hard at work. I try not to embarrass him at work -- emphasis on try.)
Of course, what really gave the icon away was the blank stare we're all so accustomed to seeing carved into wooden figurines that populate mantles all over the middle Atlantic.
I can only imagine the stock pile of fish sticks he had in his room.
A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy
WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents.
Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”)
Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)
Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”
Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees.
Damnthose buttons.
Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.
Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.
Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.
Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant.
Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.
But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said.
“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …”
Neversay never, I suppose.
My Trip to Publix
"I'd like spicy mustard and lite mayo on the sandwich, please."
"I gotta tell you. That says lite mayo, but it isn't actually lite mayo," the lovely woman behind the deli counter told me. "It's the regular stuff. Do you still want it?"
"Oh, yeah."
"OK, but it won't be lite."
"That's fine. I'll pretend," I said. "I'm very good at lying to myself."
Most surprsingly, unlike most Publix employees I share too much with, the deli woman laughed and said that sounded good to her.
For the "Truth is Stranger Than Fiction" File
Christmas break my senior year of college, oneof my friends became infatuated with the drummer of a relativelypopular local band. Because of her crush, we spent most of our breakfrom school attending the group's nightly shows.
One Wednesday, we found ourselves at a small bar/coffee house. Afterwe had our drinks in hand, we looked for seats only to notice a prettydiverse crowd. It certainly wasn't the sea of college kids and young20-somethings we were used to seeing at the band's shows.
There were a lot more middle aged men in the crowd, and a lot of thewomen were carrying around plastic magic wands. One woman, inparticular, really stood out -- she was more than a bit overweight, hadA LOT of hair and wore a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. (DidI mention that this show was still during prime time television hourson a Wednesday? Not really feather boa attire time in my book.)
Shortly thereafter, we learned that in addition to the band's show,a group of people from a local Internet chat room had decided to meetin person for the first time that evening.The magic wands helped identify the group, and their name tags all had their screen names on them.
The name tag of the woman with the red boa read "Angry Snatch."
We all learned that the Internet is a fascinating and terrifying place. And that you just never can tell with some people.
Pat Conroy, Writing and Family
Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)
I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.
Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."
That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.
"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."
"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)
"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."
The Southeastern Hair Expo of '96 and its Aftermath
For most of my sophomore year of high school, my hair looked just like it did in the picture to the right.
I've been known to experiment with my hair color. (I have been a red head, a Blondel and a brunette in my time. The only color I've never dyed my hair is black. I worry that with my fair, fair complexion, I'd end up with too much of a Snow White thing going on.) But, I didn't mess with the style too much before my sophomore year. I liked a nice heavy bang with a strong curl-under on the ends. It was the mid-1990's and such a bold look was not at all uncommon.
Then, one day, my friend Susan had a proposition for me: "Hey Laurel, how would you like to be a model in a hair show?"
Of course, it was the word "model" that hooked me. I didn't care about the context, I just wanted to be able to say that I "had modeled" at some point in my life.
"All of our hair services will be free. It'll be like getting a makeover."
As if the model part wasn't good enough, Susan offered my adolescent self her other dream -- a makeover, otherwise known as the promise of change. With that, I was done for. I sold my soul -- or, at least, my somewhat normal tresses -- for a chance to "model" in the 1996 Southeastern Hair Show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex.
About a week later, on a Friday, Susan and I went down for our beauty consultations before the big event. I was told they would be turning me into a red head and giving me a "body treatment" to help my limp locks plump up. I thought it sounded like fun.
It wasn't until that Saturday when I was having my hair shampooed by a chain-smoking platinum blond with acrylic nails in a portable sink in the basement of the BJCC that I realized what I was really in for. As soon as the "body treatment" began, I recognized a certain odor from my childhood.
"Am I getting a perm?" I asked.
"What's that baby doll?" platinum blond said in between puffs and after interrupting a conversation about her gay ex-husband's struggle to find himself.
"Are you giving me a perm? I thought I was having a body treatment."
"It's the same thing, baby. Don't worry though, this won't be one of those '80s perms. The technology's gotten so much better."
And so it began. (We all know how great my hair looks with a permanent. This is also the short version of how I showed up to my cousin's wedding with purple hair -- a fact my mother has never forgotten.)
Still, from the photo above, you can see that despite my whore-like makeup, my hair was still somewhat normal after Saturday's dye job and perm. Even if it wasn't normal, it was salvageable. But, that was all before Sunday's main Southeastern Hair Expo event -- the spectacle I didn't know was going to happen until that very morning.
I was going to have my hair cut on stage.
With no mirrors in sight, I was pulled into a chair, on stage, in front of about 30 hair dressers there to "hone their craft." All I'd gotten to say before I was pulled on stage was, "You're not going to cut my hair too short, are you?"
"Not TOO short," was the only answer I got from a woman I'd barely seen before who clearly did not consider my adolescent insecurities as part of her vision of what her role in the Southeastern Hair Expo should be.
My hair was cut in 15 minutes. I then had to walk around the room with a Polaroid of my "before" picture while strange women could touch and investigate my hair cut. Nearly 50 people had seen what was on my head before I had a chance to run to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror.
I was not happy with what I saw. (This picture was actually taken before I'd seen myself --hence the smile.)
I ran from the bathroom, out of the BJCC, to my car, where I cried for 20 minutes before I thought I could even see well enough to drive. What had been shoulder-length brown hair was now a short, bright read mushroom-like explosion on the top of my head.
I knew that not only did I have a terrible new hair cut, but I also hadan incredibly noticeable new hair cut that would have to be explainedor, at least, gawked at by everyone within a 100-yard radius.
"What's that?" is all I could imagine hearing for the next six weeks.
I was so upset, I had to drive to my best friend's house to have the courage to go to school the next day. If she hadn't said it "wasn't too terrible," I don't think I could have made it.
That Monday back at school wasn't pleasant. There were some snickers -- including some from the boy I thought hung the moon. But there was a lot more sympathy than scorn.
The Southeastern Hair Expo wasn't the makeover I had hoped for. (A true example of why you should be careful what you wish for.) But I learned that sometimes a good story and the right attitude can make up for other foibles.
I also learned that, most of the time, hair grows back. And despite the way I felt about my hair cut, I tried to keep it out of how I felt about myself.
Even though I still had a red mushroom-type explosion on top of my head, the smile in that last photo is real.
Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order
As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.
Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.
When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.
My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.
In the Music City, I say Cowboy Troy at an Oyster Bar. (For those unfamiliar with the Cowboy's work, he was at the forefront of a movement known as Hick-Hop, a stunning collaboration of country music and hip-hop. His most famous song, "I Played Chicken With the Train," featured the lyrics "I played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train y'all.") He wore a cowboy hat, lots of bling and was surrounded by some, uh, interesting ladies.
I ran into former model Niki Taylor at the Target. (Side note: Niki Taylor is covered in tattoos. And not just Japanese symbols and delicate butterflies. Niki Taylor has some deep ink on her, which I take as a real testament to the power of Hollywood concealers.) Niki Taylor seemed nervous around me. I think she thought I was following her because she was famous. In fairness, I was following her, but it was because she had the attention of the one Target employee in a 100-foot radius and apparently both the super model and I needed shower heads that day. Who knew?
And last but not least, I saw Christian Kane at Joey's House of Pizza. (Yes, I used to eat at Joey's House of Pizza. It was located in a strip mall, had a soup Nazi-esque calzone maker and I don't think I could have loved it more.) For those of you wondering who Christian Kane is, I will acknowledge that unless you were obsessed with a certain vampire slayer and her true love vampire-with-a-soul who got his own spin-off show, you probably wouldn't recognize the name. Christian Kane was lawyer Lindsay on the first two seasons of Angel -- his character's main attribute was a prosthetic hand. I think today he's best known for bad hair and TNT's Leverage.
So, I'm in Joey's House of Pizza kind of staring at Christian Kane because while I think I recognize him, I'm not quite sure. (I have no idea his name is even Christian Kane until I go back to the office and IMDB him.) And Christian Kane is looking back at me kind of like he wants to be recognized. (I do imagine it's an exciting event for smaller stars.) And we're both trying to avoid leaving covered in tomato sauce.
In the end, I never approached Christian Kane. I just didn't think, "Hey, aren't you the guy from the vampire show with a girl's name and a fake hand?" was an appropriate lead-in to conversation. Oh well.
Name the Kitten
I have never considered myself a cat person.
When I was eight, I asked for a kitten for my birthday and was promptly informed that my mother was allergic. (A generation before that, my mother had been informed that her mother was allergic to cats when she asked for a kitten.) I didn't think about kittens much after that. When I was 12, my sisters and I got our very own puppy, and then I really forgot about cats.
But, about eight weeks ago, a lone, emaciated cat showed up on my porch. She was so small and so hungry that almost before I knew it, I had purchased cat food and was feeding her every day.
And my stray cat did not come alone. She showed up pregnant. (I figured that she might be pregnant, but I didn't think she could be more than a month or so along -- most of me still hoped she was just engorged from going from near-starvation to daily feedings. She proved me wrong by birthing a litter of five on the neighbors' porch two weeks ago.)
The neighbors are going to keep Mama, and I'm taking one of the kittens. (Two kittens still need homes if you know of anyone looking for a new pet ...)
As usual, I'm having lots of trouble with the naming process. It took me three weeks to name my first dog (in those three weeks, he was called every thing from Jake to Milton to JD before I settled on Milo). Cassidy would have a different name if it hadn't me take so long to come up with something new that I thought I would confuse her. God help me if I were ever part of a band.
Since I have this here blog though, I thought I would turn to y'all for help. I've compiled a list of names below. Vote for your favorite or send a new suggestion along. The only requirement is that the kitty have a "c" name so she'll fit in with the rest of the crew. (Yes, I did consider just "cat," but I'm scared the people at the vet's office would think I was flippant and judge me.) Here goes:
http://www.micropoll.com/akira/MicroPoll?id=192626
Thanks for you help! If I can figure out video uploads, I'll share more photos soon.
Jazz Hands
It seems I'm just going to keep adding to the list of photos that prove I was a child of the '80s and early '90s. (The tell-tale signs in this particular pic? Perm, neon, sequins, sequined choker, jaunty hat.)
This is the photo from what would have been my third grade jazz recital. (Do people even still take jazz class? I remember thinking it was very "modern" of me. I only ever mastered step-ball-change, despite weeks of training. And I can't remember if I knew "jazz hands" before the life-changing event that was Bring it On.)
I also can't remember whether or not I liked this outfit or not. I think I dug the one-shoulder look, but I also remember being very jealous that my middle sister got to wear a big pink tutu that reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch for her part of the same recital.
Wearing this outfit was the first time someone ever whistled at me -- a sweet older man who worked at the Western Supermarket -- and I glowed because of it.
Sadly, though, I never got to perform in this amazing ensemble.
About two weeks before the recital, I broke both of my arms.
Yes, both of them. There was a tree house involved, and let's just say that the natural instinct to defend yourself from the ground in a fall is not a good one. I lay on the ground thinking that I had hurt my chest because that's where I could feel the pain. But, when I stood up, it looked like my hands were on top of my arms. (That's a compound fracture for you.) I then ran like the wind (a true rarity) to get my friend's mom's attention so I could go somewhere with doctors ASAP.
Many hours later, I had casts on both arms and was an extremely unhappy child. (A nurse tried to help me with slings, and I ended up looking like I was in a straight jacket. It was awkward.) And I hadn't just broken both my arms. I'd broken both my arms three days before school ended for the summer. No class trip, no pool parties and no jazz recital.
In fairness to the ladies of my dance school, when my mom and I went to pick up my sister from her dance class a day or two before the recital, the receptionist thought I could still perform. "If we cut off the one arm, I'm sure we could get the costume on her," she said. "Then she'd at least be able to dance."
My mother, who is usually full of tact and grace, stared at that women in a way I've rarely seen her look at anyone. "I don't think so."
Who would think that putting a nine-year-old with two broken arms on stage in ballet shoes to dance is a good idea, I don't know. (Other than the naive receptionist, of course.) But my mother was having none of it, and I'm grateful for that nearly every day.
This photo is bad enough. Can you even imagine what it would look like with white plaster invovled, too?
Extreme Wives
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
Bachelor #1 tries to break the ice by giving women bags of Jelly Belly jelly beans with Christian cartoons attached. (???) He also has a moustache. Enough said.
Bachelor #2 is nearly 60 and talks a lot about how American women don't know how to be wives anymore. He also has a propensity for walking around without a shirt on, and I think it's possible that a small former-Soviet republic could have been swallowed up by his overhanging gut. (Hey, I know it takes all kinds, but leaving the shirt on would be a nice start.) Has anyone heard from Moldova lately?
Bachelor #3 has an assault conviction. He says it's because the "young girl" he was seeing had a father that threatened him and he had to defend himself. All I know is that I'd be pretty pissed if someone picked up my kid from her girl scout meeting without my permission, too. (Actual details of that last sentence entirely fabricated by me, but I wouldnt' put it past Bachelor #3.) He also cries on a date and tries to hit on Dawn at one point. I think Bachelor #3 should be in prison somewhere. If you are a law enforcement official, please watch Extreme Wife and look through your cold cases.
Despite the fact that Bachelor #3 made my skin crawl, it was Bachelor #4 who I really worried about being allowed in the general population. In summation:
1. Bachelor #4 says that women date him because he has a cool car -- a Ford Mustang. He also brags that his license plate is "BadBoy3" because he's "a bad boy."
2. B4 wants a younger woman because he's "just a kid at heart." His favorite shows are Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. (Cough, ild-chay, cough, olseter-may.)
3. B4 buys his cologne at the Dollar Tree. Dawn nearly gags entering his hotel room for a pre-social interview.
4. B4 describes himself as "sexually aggressive." He likes to pull hair.
5. In addition to the Mustang, B4 drives a van with the back seats removed to make space for a mattress. He says his friends always want to know how he "gets such young girls." (Between this show and Dateline's To Catch a Predator, I'm wondering how many men use "young girls" as a synonym for "women not yet of the age of legal consent." With B4, I imagine "getting young girls" has a lot to do with the Internet, low self-esteem and images he stole out of store-bought picture frames.)
When Dawn tried to follow up with the lovely men, Bachelor #4's phone number had been diconnected. I can only hope he went to jail.
I've left one Bachelor out because with his seeming respect for women and insistence that he wanted to meet someone his age, in comparison, I was starting to think he was a real catch -- despite the all-white three-piece suit.
Considering my fascination with Mormons (only the Fundamentalist ones), I can't wait for the next episode of Extreme Wife. It may be the most exciting thing that happens to me all week ...
Premature Aging?
Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)
http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ
And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer.
While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.
I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).
If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked.
So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?
What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?
Oh dear ...
Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?
Haunted
One of the movies I decided I absolutely had to see as a child was Ghost. Unlike most everyone else my age, I didn't have a crush on Patrick Swayze. (I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother's permission to see Dirty Dancing as I was sure lots of really awkward pauses and questions like "Why do you think boys would want to dance like that?" would ensue, so I didn't see that movie until high school.) It was something about the storyline and the relationship between the two main characters in Ghost that did a real number on my little girl notion of romance and love.
Since the movie was rated PG-13 (and, perhaps more importantly, since I didn't have a car or money), I clearly had to ask my mother's permission on this one, too, but I was willing to risk it over Ghost like I hadn't been over Dirty Dancing. After all, I was an incredibly mature ten-year-old this time around (and Ghost had a far more innocuous title.)
Despite her reservations about a certain well-known (and pictured) scene -- how do mothers know about these things without having seen the movie? -- she consented.
I could barely take the excitement of waiting to see Ghost. I even prepared to cry because I was sure that crying at sad, doomed love stories was a very adult thing to do. Waiting for my trip to the Friday afternoon matinee screening seemed an eternity.
For the most part, the movie was all that I hoped it would be. There were funny parts, and sad parts, and Demi Moore's character wore some knit jumpsuits I totally wanted to emulate in my own wardrobe. But, for as much as I enjoyed the film, there was a scene that bugged me even in my preteen days.
As everybody knows, Patrick Swayze's character Sam never tells his girlfriend how much he loves her. Instead, every time she says that she loves him, he just says, "Ditto." Then, in the final moments of the film, just as Sam is about to head off into the afterlife and all of the rules of life and death are askew so that he and his soul mate can have one last moment together proving that love can be immortal and true love can make miracles, he says to Demi, "I love you."
She answers, "Ditto."
Now, I get that this is the cute answer. I also get that this brings certain elements of the movie full circle. But, it still seems to me that the last time you get to see someone, especially if that moment comes at the cost of all you've come to accept about mortality and the laws of the universe, is not the time to be cutesy.
Is her answer a tad witty? Sure. Funny? A bit. What you should say knowing you'll never, ever be able to lay eyes on your beloved again? Probably not. Just say "I love you" and skip the jokes, Demi. I kind of imagine a higher power smacking his or her head in disgust that of all the people on earth, you're the one they bent the rules of the time-space continuum for.
Of course, I still cried, but it has bugged me ever since. And God forbid I let something like this go after a mere 19 years.
The Closest I Will Ever Get to Jon Hamm
And the closest I'll ever get is having my '60s avatar courtesy of MadMenYourself.com next to the standard backdrop John Hamm avatar.
Sigh.
But, considering what stalking laws are these days, it's probably for the best.
The Eleven-Year-Old Working Girl
All children go through phases.
As a four-year-old, I spent a month wanting to learn anything and everything I could about ostriches. In the first grade, I would only take a jar of Vienna sausages for lunch each day. In third grade, I became obsessed with Divorce Court and thought playing an attorney on the show meant I would not have to choose between my goals of being a lawyer and an actress when I grew up. (Even my nine-year-old peers thought that last one was stupid.)
And, when I was in the fifth grade, I only wanted to wear little suits.
Sure, most kids have to be begged to dress up, but not me. I never had a naked phase where I ran around the neighborhood refusing to put on clothes, I never screamed in protest about taking baths and I didn't even run barefoot like my Montgomery cousins. I suppose my anti-norms-of-society feelings ran more towards inappropriate formal wear than getting back to nature or the wild. (If you're wondering where one even finds suits for pre-teens, trust me that in the early '90s, the Limited Too was full of them.)
I can still vividly remember the summer after fourth grade when I found a circular for Kids 'R' Us in the daily paper and saw my first miniature suit. It was black with a white pattern, and the child model looked downright jaunty in it.
I had to have it. And, unfortunately for everyone involved, it was only the first of many suits in my back-to-school wardrobe that year.
I wore my more casual suits with t-shirts underneath for a laid-back approach (pictured) and my more refined suits (including a navy one with a pleated skirt and flared back on the jacket) with bodysuits. (Again, you have to remember that this was circa 1990-1991. Units had just gone out of style, and I was desperately trying to fill the hole created by the lack of tubes and tunics in my life. And bodysuits were abundant. At least I didn't insist on purchasing dickeys.)
When you combine these clothing choices with the fact that I was still growing out a just-as-unfortunate perm from a year before, I looked much too much like a pre-makeover Melanie Griffith in Working Girl most days.
And I certainly cut an odd silhouette when it was time for P.E. class and dodge ball.
Like most childhood phases, I eventually grew out of my desire to dress business casual at elementary school (long before I started working from home, thank you very much), and I moved on to a love of the cloth head band in sixth grade. But, I often wonder, in the karmic sense of things, what my own kids will put me through in the wardrobe phase department. (Let's not forget my tiara years.)
If I'm lucky enough to have kids of my own, I'm hoping for superheroes and costumes instead of those aforementioned naked children. If nothing else, it seems cleaner.
Which is Worse?
A) The fact that despite an M.A. (yes, it's in English, but still),the only job that's available, I'm qualified for and pays above minimumwage involves waiting tables at someplace called the Tilted Kilt.
or
B) The fact that I'm fairly positive this 29-year-old body couldn't get past the front door at the in-person-only interview.
or
C)That I'm far more bothered by B than A. (I know, I know, I'm angryenough at myself. I'd much rather be regarded for my intelligence thanabilities than as a sexual object, but I still can't help but want a smokin' bod -- without diet or exercise -- and a seat on the Supreme Court. Oh, the conundrums of womanhood.)