The Things I Think But Do Not Tweet
No offense, but it seems like psychic Alison Dubois really should have called Camille Grammer's divorce at some point on Real Housewives.
Why don't I tweet it? Because after that particular episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I'm kind of terrified of Alison Dubois. (I'm really glad I've already enjoyed my years of Medium viewing.) Seriously, I'm afraid. She brags about knowing when people are going to die?!?! This is no good for someone with an anxiety disorder and people-pleasing issues. I really hope she doesn't get into the double-digit pages of Googling herself.
And I know we all miss things, but just from context, Kelsey had already run off to New York for two months without his wife. It seems like this one could have taken more "educated guess" than "psychic prediction."
My Sordid Past And New Relationships
I’m not sure how common this is in the rest of the country, but there are many Southern homes that still love their portraiture.
(If you are imagining English royals sitting on velvet tufts while petting King Charles Spaniels as you read “portraiture,” you wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Though, personally, I and no one I know have ever been painted on a velvet tuft, I can’t say for sure that it hasn’t occurred in the 21st century. The dog is also not out of the question. In my part of the country, it’s just more likely to be a lab in an outdoor scene than a lap dog.)
Olan Mills doesn’t count here. I’m talking about honest-to-goodness, calls-for-a-sitting, put-forever-in-oil portrait.
I believe portraits of children are most common – the kind with girls in smocked and French hand sewn dresses (you’ll have to Google it) and boys in, well, similar smocked and French hand sewn outfits. (In the South, we really don’t have issues with dressing boys much like girls until at least the age of two. Usually their smocked outfits are jumpers or shorts, but there are no guarantees.)
Some homes have portraits of adults, and there are even some people known to have nude portraits of themselves. The former are often rather wealthy. The latter are usually discussed in whispers at cocktail parties.
Personally, I have three portraits hanging in my parents’ house. One is actually in pastels, so I’m not sure I have to count it, but I’m in smocked dress, and I’m two. The second portrait is of my mother, my sisters and me. Again, my sisters and I are in very delicate dresses. I think I was six. The last, and final portrait, is of me at 17 in the dress from my junior cotillion. (Some day I will subtitle my memoir “Tales of an Irreverent Debutante.” Until then, I’ll leave the topic of cotillions alone.)
Now, portraits are hardly likely to come up in day-to-day conversation. Most of the time, I forget they even exist. I also tend to forget all of the other pictures from childhood to adolescence that my mom and dad still have. That is, until, a boyfriend is invited to the house to meet the parents. In the living room, the two following questions always ensue:
1. Is that you on a five and half foot canvas hung in a gold frame in the living room?
2. When was your hair red?
The answers are:
1. Yes. My mom likes portraits. Wouldn’t you rather check out the one of my sister in her bowl cut years? (Sorry to throw you under the bus, Sis.)
2. Off and on between the ages of 15 and 20. I was also blond at 22. If there’s a hair color, I’ve had it.
In my father’s study, we get into even more trouble:
"Why are you in a hoop skirt?"
It’s that one that takes a little longer to explain. (Note to reader: the hoop skirt is in a photo and not a portrait, just like the Birmingham Belle ceremony is separate from the junior cotillion. I wore the hoop skirt twice – once as a Belle and once for Halloween. For the sake of family peace, I’ll just say that I wasn’t too excited about joining that organization.)
For the uninitiated, the Birmingham Belles are a group of girls chosen to represent Arlington, Birmingham’s only remaining antebellum home. Arlington is also open for tours and home to a museum. Originally, Belles had all sorts of civic duties, like going to community functions and giving tours of the house. Then, thank heavens, Birmingham finally caught on to the fact that sending girls in hoop skirts, hats and white gloves to the airport to pick up visitors was a) incredibly embarrassing and b) not exactly doing a lot for the image of “The New South.” They also realized that self-guided tours were sufficient for a home with 7 rooms.
My friend and I attended one volunteer event as Birmingham Belles, and it was a bake sale where we wore jeans. I think I was still embarrassed even though we didn’t have our bloomers on.
In short, the visual artifacts of my adolescence can be quite fascinating – especially if you’re not from here. You also have some frightening insight into the kinds of information a Mills boyfriend is bound to discover.
* I apologize that the hoop skirt photo is not available at this time.
Away Message
I'll be taking a short vacation from blogging. Please check back the week of March 28 for new updates and posts. As always, thanks so much for reading!
Cat Update
For anyone still keeping track of the cat's name changes, here are the latest developments in Kitty Cat Jones' life.
1. We started calling Kitty Cat Jones by his initials, so we've been calling him KKJ for a few months now. Then, one day, while yelling "KKJ" across the yard, we realized some of the neighbors might think we're racists if they misheard us or didn't listen too carefully.
2. I was asking a friend of mine whether or not she thought our neighbors might think we were extremely prejudiced when she paused.
"You know that Kitty Cat Jones' initials would actually be KCJ, right?"
So, not only might we be considered the white supremacists in the neighborhood, but we can't spell either.
3. I went home and told the SO about our mistake, and he responded, "No, that cat is KKJ. End of story. I don't care what his actual initials are."
4. Despite Coco, Cocoa, Toonces, Kitty Cat Jones, KKJ and KCJ, we've actually just been referring to the fluffy little dude as "the stationary cat" because he does not move from the spot in the picture for days. And I mean days. Other than raising his head occasionally, I don't think he leaves the dog's bed for hours (in the multiples of 24 variety) on end.
5. Meet the stationary cat! (Sure to be TSC or some other bizarre incarnation by Spring.)
Thank you!
I'd like to thank everyone who has voted, RT-ed my tweets, commented on my blog, put up with my blog and liked posts on Facebook to help me in my quest to be Volvo's Biggest Fan of the Big East. I appreciate your support and patience, and I never could have made it through to the final four without you ... [Read more]
D.C. Trip Part One: In Which We Barely Make It Out Of The Airport
This past weekend, Volvo graciously sponsored a trip for me to return to my Alma mater, Georgetown, and watch one of the biggest games of the season, Georgetown v. Syracuse.
Our trip began with a two-hour delay due to winds in Baltimore ... [Read more]
My Trinity And Good Intentions (With Video)
I fully believe the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Of course, I’ve also always hoped the adage wasn’t referring to a literal hell. I just figured it was pretty obvious that we all get more than we bargain for when we try a little too hard ... [Read more]
911
A few years ago, the SO and I were in the car coming back from Atlanta when we saw a dog wandering down the median of the highway.
“Call 911,” he said. “We need to report this.”
“Report the dog?”
“Yes, report the dog. Call 911.”
Now, clearly I love dogs as much as the next person. If we could have stopped without causing an accident, I would have insisted on pulling over to rescue the poor thing. But call 911? I wasn’t so sure about that.
“Why aren’t you calling 911?”
“Are you sure we should call?”
“Yes, I’m sure we should call.”
“Really sure?”
“Really sure. Would you feel better if I called?” he said. “Even though I’m the one driving?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do think that would be better.”
The SO called 911 to report the dog, and then we had an extended conversation about why I wouldn’t call 911 and how I didn’t recognize that the dog could have caused a car crash at any second, etc., etc. (Sometimes I envy people who lived before the invention of motor vehicles because there was no such thing as being trapped in a car with someone – no matter how much you love and adore them. Not that I'm sure covered wagons going across the plains were all that much better, but at least you had buffalo, raids and other more pressing concerns to occupy your time. Incidentally, the car is also where my mother always chose to try and talk to me about sex, drugs and other teen issues.)
The problem I have is that ever since I can remember, I’ve had a terrible fear of calling 911.
In high school, I called 911 twice. Once because a woman in the store where I was working had a stroke and once because a friend and I drove by someone slumped over in his car. Both incidents required lots of cajoling.
In the first, an older man I worked with had to grab the phone from me and explain what was actually happening to the 911 operator. In the second, my friend and I agreed that if we drove by the same car twice, and the guy still hadn’t moved, we’d call 911.
On our second drive by, I made the call. “Yeah,” my 16-year-old self said, “there’s this guy in his car, and he’s like not moving or anything. He could be asleep or he could be, like, dead.”
“We’ll send someone to check it out.”
Then, I gave the female operator the address, and my friend and I went home.
It’s not that I was worried about the circumstances that could lead to such an awful call, or that I was afraid of accidents, it’s that I felt like the 911 operator would judge me if the reason I called wasn’t urgent enough or “emergency worthy.” I fear the judgment of a stranger on the other end of a phone line. Where this comes from, I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s related to my feelings about pizza orders and utility customer service.
“But it’s their job to take your calls,” the SO said. “And it’s their job to decide what to do in the situation?”
“Really?” I said.
“Really.”
Well, this little conversation was like being freed from a lifetime of 911 fear. I called 911 when I heard really loud noises outside my house at night. I reported a fighting couple outside of a housing project. I felt like justice was my mission and 911 was my weapon. I was on a tear.
Of course, like all good or bad things, this bent of mine eventually came to an end. This time it was after a particularly confusing conversation with a 911 operator.
I was driving home one night, when I saw a car pulled over in the parking area of a fire station that was being built. A man was laid out on the ground, and a woman was bending over him. (Now before you judge me for not acting in these kinds of situations, know that I don’t get out of my car for anything – especially after dark. It’d be lovely if we lived in a world where everyone could be trusted and no one used your desire to help someone in distress as a weakness, but we don’t. I’ll make a call for you, but I won’t unlock my door, at home or on the road.)
“911.”
“Hi,” I said, “I think there’s someone in trouble on 5th Avenue South.”
“What makes you think that?”
I described the scene.
“Where on 5th Avenue South did you see this?”
“Near 45th Street,” I said. “Across from that building …”
“What building?”
“Oh, it’s where’s 3rd Avenue and 5th Avenue split,” I said. “You know, where the new fire station is going to be.”
“Are you saying this man is going to be at this address?”
“No, the man is there. It’s the fire station that isn’t there yet.”
“When will this man be at the address?”
I had gone from savior to suspect because of what I’m hoping was a bad cell phone connection. In my best case scenario, she thought I was a drug user who was going to dump a friend having a bad trip. In my worst case scenario, she thought I was a murderer/mob king pin with a body to get rid of.
“The man is already there,” I said. “He’s there right now.”
“And where are you?”
That’s when I hung up, my fear of 911 returned and fully-realized yet again. I won't be rising to the title of the Savior of Avondale anytime soon.
The Curious Case Of The Found Pants
Like most kids, I enjoyed my mystery series, with Encyclopedia Brown being at the top of the list. (It was in the ice cubes the whole time!)
Well, I enjoyed most mystery series. Nancy Drew was an exception. When my mom handed me my first Nancy Drew book, The Secret of the Old Clock, I remember looking at the cover art – which was of a girl kneeling next to a clock with a document next to it – and thinking, “There’s a will in the clock. Done.” I never read past page four, and I never picked up another Nancy Drew novel. Truthfully, I was a little insulted. (Insulted by the series, not my mom.)
I also liked to watch Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Nick at Nite, so I preferred my mysteries with unexpected twists – murder victims that became feed on the farm didn’t bother me at all.
And, thanks to my grandmother’s love of Murder, She Wrote, my favorite murder giveaway goes something like this:
“I can’t believe poor Mrs. Winters was shot to death.”
“I never said anything about Mrs. Winters being shot. How could you know that? Unless …”
[Insert slow clap.] “Well, I guess you’re onto me now, aren’t you?” Or, for the more sympathetic criminals, there were doe eyes and, “She was going to ruin me Jessica! Don’t you understand? She was going to ruin me!”
As an adult or child, I never get into Sherlock Holmes (unless he is being played by Robert Downey, Jr. – another story for another day). I want a chance to figure out a mystery, and if I have to know obscure 18th century ceramic patterns and cigar bands from India to solve the crime, I’m just not interested.
I will, however, watch most anything loosely-based on Sherlock Holmes – House (until they got rid of Cameron and ruined it for me), The Mentalist and Psych included. (Hugh Laurie, Simon Baker and James Roday may, or may not, have something to do with that.)
While I also like to play armchair detective when it comes to the news (“The killer is obviously a white male with Mommy issues”), I prefer not to go looking for mysteries in my own life. As a child, yes, I was all about lost money or old wills or treasure, but as an adult, I find the daily hunt for my missing keys to be enough of an extracurricular mental challenge.
This is only one of the many reasons I don’t like it when strange things occur around my house. These days, I have no need for secret admirers, long-lost relatives or neighbors trying to stuff rugs in the backs of their cars late at night. A quiet, peaceful home works just fine for me.
So, to whoever left their pants outside my door over the weekend – stop it! I don’t want to consider the possibilities of how your pants got there (ew), why you were pants-less on my property (more ew) or why you picked my house of all places, to gallivant. (The pants incident is still very jarring for me, so I’ve kind of run out of words for the whole thing. Hence, for you unfortunate reader, “gallivant.”)
As far as I’m concerned, clothes belong on people, and if anyone is going to leave clothes around my house, he or she is going to at least be someone I know.
Whoever you are, oh mysterious provider of pants, please find another stoop for your leftovers. This particular armchair detective has enough to worry about with her car keys and finding that tax form I tried to file last week.
My Top 5 Car Care Pointers
I don’t think this will come as a surprise to most people, but I am a very neat person. I love storage bins – easily identified thanks to my handy label maker. I enjoy doing laundry, and I might consider my steam mop more than just a cleaning apparatus – it’s kind of like an anti-bacterial friend ... [Read more]
Most Awkward First Dates
In my dating life, there have been a number of unfortunate moments. And I may or may not have once inadvertently forced some wait staff to stay long past their shifts were over because no one wanted to tell the crying girl at table 7 the restaurant was closed, but since I decided to limit this post to first dates, here you have it:
1. The World’s Shortest Date
Shortly after I graduated college, I met a man who was out with some guy friends of mine. He was in D.C. to interview for a job on the Hill. He asked for my number so he could call me when he moved to town. I gave it to him thinking, “I’m sure I’ll hear from this one.”
But, strangely enough, three weeks later while I was shopping in the Safeway, my phone rang. “Laurel, it’s Joe.”
Luckily, he was kind enough to give me some context clues because I had no idea who Joe was by then.
“Anyway, I got that job,” he said, “so I was thinking I could take you to dinner once I got up there.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, and we made plans for an upcoming Thursday.
Joe came to pick me up, and we decided to walk to a restaurant in my neighborhood for dinner. We ate, talked about what might have happened to Chandra Levy, and he walked me home. From doorstep to doorstep, it took all of 45 minutes.
“How about I give you a call this weekend when I know what I’m up to?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing full well that phone call would never come.
Maybe the real me didn’t match up to the memory, but I’m not sure what I did to warrant holding onto my phone number for three weeks only to end up being someone Joe didn’t even want to spend an hour with.
2. We Shouldn’t Have Talked About Music
Date #2, who we’ll call Dan, was an office fix-up. Now, in my opinion there is little more awkward than the office fix-up. It’s pretty hard to say “no” when Sue from HR or Tammy from accounting wants you to go out with their adorable nephew or wonderful son when they know you’re single. There’s never a good excuse (especially if you did not create a pretend boyfriend on day 1 of the job), and you usually just have to go. Also, if it goes wrong, as it usually will, you quickly go from being the cutest girl in the office to the evil heart breaker who thinks she’s too good for everyone.
While Dan was watching me eat nachos on our date (he couldn’t have so much food because of a recent surgery), I turned to the gold standard of dating small talk – music. Since “With or Without You” happened to be playing overhead, I said, “I really like U2.”
“What?” he said.
“I really like U2.” I even pointed upwards thinking he would somehow catch the music playing in the background even though he couldn’t hear me, and I was sitting right next to him.
There was a long pause.
“Oh, uh, I like you, too,” he said.
Then an even longer silence set in – partly because I was embarrassed and partly because I really didn’t know where to go from there. I also didn't like him that much, so half an hour into our "relationship," it was already based on a lie.
When he walked me to my car after I made up an excuse to go home before 10, I literally said, “Good luck with everything” and gave him the double pistol shoot with my hands to make sure there was plenty of space between us as I got into the car.
If there’s ever a biopic of my life, I’m hoping that moment of social genius doesn’t make the cut.
3. There is little shame like the shame of being judged at the Olive Garden
My first date was a double date with another couple. While I’m sure the other couple was brought along to make the situation less uncomfortable and awkward for me and my date, well, we all know what they say about the best-laid plans.
The couple my date and I were doubling with had recently gone through a break up due to some cheating but had gotten back together.
After our 45-minute wait at the Olive Garden, we were seated. We ordered our meals. Things seemed to be going well. Then, the trouble began.
I’m not sure how the cheating came back up, but as the waitress was delivering our food, my friend said, “You know Mike, if you aren’t happy with what you had, you’re welcome to send it back for something else.”
“No, I’m perfectly happy with what I have,” he said.
“Well, you certainly don’t act like it. Maybe you’d like something newer and more interesting.”
“No, no. I like what I have.”
This conversation went on much longer, but my date and I were able to finally signal to the bewildered waitress that she could deliver the food and walk away. (The metaphor was not nearly as clear to her, and she kept offering to ask for changes in the kitchen.)
The fight culminated when my friend slapped her date. In the middle of Olive Garden.
You’d think it’s impossible to bring everyone to a dead halt in a chain restaurant, but just like that, you learn that it isn’t all that hard after all. Everyone was looking at our table. The room was silent.
My date and I spent the rest of our meal staring into our plates of spaghetti. On the ride home, my friend and her date “made up” in the back seat for most of the trip. Needless to say, we didn't go out again.
Not to point any fingers, but this may be one of the reasons it took me about 15 years to get a better handle on the dating thing.
Proposals
I have never been proposed to. Considering that I’ve never been engaged and/or married, I didn’t think this was at all odd. Proposals = engagements = weddings, right?
Then, I was out with a single friend who mentioned “one of the guys who’d proposed to her.”
“One of the guys?” I said. “How many people have proposed to you?”
“Three, I think,” she said.
“You think?”
“Three sounds right.”
“How long had you been dating this particular guy?” I said, going back to the original proposer to try and make sense of it all.
“A few months, but he had the ring before he met me. He was looking for a wife. He wasn’t necessarily looking for me.”
Fair enough. We discussed the other two proposals, and life went on.
A few weeks after that, I ran into someone else who talked about her engagement rings. As in plural.
“How many people have proposed to you?” I said.
“Just the two,” she said.
"Just two" still seemed high to me (not in a bad way, just an unexpected way). I mean, having zero proposals under my belt, I’m easily trumped by any number, but still. Two drunken boyfriends (at different times) each said, “I’m gonna marry you,” but I don’t think that counts when you consider how many beers were involved.
Admittedly, my type before the age of 25 was unemployed and emotionally unavailable, but I still had no idea so many men were running around with diamond solitaires out there. (Is this what EHarmony is for?)
Mulling the subject over for the bit, it finally hit me – I had been proposed to! The only problem was that I was nine at the time.
In third grade, our elementary school welcomed a new student, and he became rather instantly smitten with me. (I only wore red, black or white and had a perm. I’m sure you can imagine what a catch I was.) Years ago, I vowed not to use real names in my writing, and you have no idea how much that is killing me right now because this particular boy had one of the most awesome names ever. I hate having to replace a rhyming name (complete with alliteration) with Harry, but a rule is a rule.
What I remember about Harry is that he loved to wear a yellow Starvin’ Marvin t-shirt, and he had no qualms about making his love for me known. He referred to me as his future wife on the playground and brought me lots of gifts like erasers and colorful pencils.
One day, before lunch, he asked me to marry him. Now, before you dismiss this story as not counting as an actual proposal, I need to add one key detail – he had a sapphire and diamond ring with him. And that ring was far more impressive than the plastic happy-faced ring he’d presented me with the day before.
I was all set to give my usual “no” when I saw the sparkles. “That’s nice,” I said, instantly entranced.
“Please, please marry me,” he said.
“I need to think about it,” I said. What I really needed to think about was how to get out of being betrothed before I got to junior high and managing to hold on to that ring. Mulling it over with my best friend, I said, “Can I say ‘no’ and keep the ring?”
Clearly, I was a sensitive child.
While I was still wrestling with whether or not to marry for money, Harry’s mom called the school. It seemed it hadn’t taken her long to connect the missing ring from her jewelry box to her son’s classroom crush. I guess Harry had (correctly) realized he wasn’t getting my attention with the trinkets he could afford – erasers, colored pencils and smiley-faced rings – and stepped it up a notch.
Unfortunately for me, before the end of the day, the ring (which was beautiful) was locked away safely in Mrs. Treater’s desk drawer until it was time for our parents to pick us up. Harry had some explaining to do when he got home, and my dilemma was over.
While I know I can’t count that as a real proposal, I am changing my number to a .5. It seems fair to me, and this is my blog. So there. (Oh, how the sensitive child has matured in the passing years …)
The Top 7 Moments In Soap Opera History
I have a long history with soap operas. From even before I can remember, I know that I watched soap operas. I came from a household with a working mother and a nanny as well as a region of the country with occasionally unbearably hot summers. In short, it was bound to happen.
In case you’re wondering, I’m an ABC girl. I can recount plot lines and family connections going back over 20 years from All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital without batting an eye. I gave Days a try for awhile in high school, but everything moved so slowly and then there was an actress playing four different parts, including a nun with terrible teeth, and I had to give it up.
My freshman year of college, as we were reviewing an essay of mine, a professor said, “Have you ever thought about being a writer?”
“Not unless it was a soap opera,” I thought, and I forgot about the whole conversation for another five years.
There were times I would have given my right eye for a column in Soap Opera Digest, but eventually I got to a point where I just couldn’t handle it all. It’s too long a story for most of you, but let’s just say that it began when they broke up Jon (who, yes, used to be my cell phone screen saver) and Natalie on One Life to Live and officially ended when they put Jason and Sam back together on General Hospital. I can’t remember the last time I watched a soap, and sadly, I don’t think I’ll go back. I like my couples strong (Joey and Pacey), and I like it when TV writers accept that certain people belong together no matter how many other relationships they have to explore (again, Joey and Pacey).
I also have two theories about soap operas: 1) Any man who has ever watched a wrestling match cannot bitch about soap operas. They’re basically the same thing, soaps just tend to have better acting (especially if you’re on ABC) and 2) Say as much as you want about groundbreaking television, but most social taboos have been broken on daytime long before they hit the prime time scene. Ryan Phillippe played a gay teen with AIDS on One Life to Live in 1992. That’s got quite a few years on Will and Grace or Glee (both of which I love before anyone gets too worked up).
This past week, I discovered that the website I worked for in Nashville finally came down. While this wouldn’t be that big of a deal to most people considering that the company itself dissolved in 2007, I’m feeling a little bit like I lost a year of my life. My writing samples from that time were on a computer that underwent a major virus attack and I barely survived the recovery process with my family photos and thesis work in tact. And, yes, I had time to take all of those samples off the web, but I just never quite got around to doing it. Of the 100 or so pieces I wrote while I worked there, I think I’ve gotten about 20 back.
(I’m throwing a pity party of one, but despite my own procrastination and role to play, losing any of my writing – no matter how bad – is hard for me. I never really thought “Cat Scratch Fever: Seven cat breeds perfect for your family” would launch my career, but I still miss it.)
Fortunately, for you and me, one of the many pieces I’ve been able to save is a list I wrote on soaps. (Like I’ve said before, I spent most of my early publishing career as your go-to gal for Top fill-in-the-blank lists.) So, without any further ado (Lord knows there’s been enough all ready), I give you my Top 7 Moments in Soap Opera History (with YouTube web links):
1. Katherine's Cosmetic Surgery
The Young and the Restless
In 1984, Katherine/Kay Chancellor (played by Jeanne Cooper, veteran actress and mother to actor Corbin Bernson) had her real-life face lift written into the storyline of the popular daytime drama The Young and the Restless. Cooper was filmed, bandages as all, as she had the surgery and recovered. This was the first time such a merging of fiction and reality occurred on television. Years later, in 1997, Linda Dano would follow Cooper's lead when she had her face lift procedure written into the storyline for her character, Felicia Gallant, on Another World.
2. Marlena's Possession
Days of Our Lives
In a storyline that was often mocked yet still fascinated viewers, Days of Our Lives took a page from The Exorcist when Dr. Marlena Evans' body was taken over by the devil in 1994 and 1995. During this time, Marlena (Deidre Hall) was prone to levitating and having her eyes turn green. Luckily, the love and priestly skills of Marlena's better super couple half, John Black, prove enough to save her from the dark side.
3. Erica's Visit to the Clinic
All My Children
In 1973, infamous soap character Erica Kane (Susan Lucci) was an up-and-coming model who found herself with a dilemma – her career was taking off, and she was pregnant. Unbeknownst to soap husband Jeff Martin, Kane decided to terminate the pregnancy, and the first legal abortion was addressed on daytime television. In 2005, history was made again when Josh Madden showed up in town, and it was revealed that the doctor who supposedly performed Kane's procedure in 1973 had actually transplanted her fetus to his wife who carried the baby to term. (That last medically-impossible part doesn't seem to leave much room for follow-up.)
4. Noah and Luke's Kiss
As the World Turns
Hot button social issues are nothing new to daytime. In 1987, a woman suffering from AIDS made her first appearance in Pine Valley on All My Children. In 1992 on One Life to Live, a gay male teen named Billy Douglas (portrayed by Ryan Phillipe) stirred things up in Llanview. All My Children made headlines again in 2003 when the first romantic kiss between female characters was aired. Yet, it wasn't until 2007 that As the World Turns made soap history with a lip lock between Luke Snyder (Van Hansis) and struggling-to-come-out-of-the-closet Noah Mayer (Jake Silbermann). Once you throw Noah's strict military dad into the mix, you've got the recipe for great daytime drama.
5. Luke and Laura's Wedding
General Hospital
True Luke and Laura fans have trouble picking out the top moment for the super couple that puts all other super couples to shame. These two have certainly had their lows – there's Luke's rape of Laura in 1979, the discovery of Laura's son by a Cassadine in 1996 and Luke's attempt to account for the rape to the couple's confused son, Lucky, in 1998. But, their highs are just as great – misadventures on the run from Frank Smith, the birth of Lulu, a reunion in 2006. Yet, the crowning moment for Luke and Laura will always be their 1981 nuptials. With millions of viewers and a cameo by Elizabeth Taylor, this moment in soap history is hard to beat.
6. Reva's Dip in the Fountain
Guiding Light
As the indomitable Reva Shayne Lewis on Guiding Light, Kim Zimmer has wowed audiences and taken home four daytime Emmy awards. Despite years of plot twists and turns, Zimmer is probably best known for a 1984 scene in which the actress stripped down to her skivvies for a dip on the patio of the country club where she "baptized" herself the "slut of Springfield." Zimmer's performance is incredible, but it's the combination of formal wear and biblical imagery that makes this moment truly special.
7. Karen's Testimony
One Life to Live
Some soap moments are great for their outlandishness; others feed our fantasies of love or comeuppance. And some captivate us for their humanity. Such is the case with the 1979 testimony of Karen Walek (Judith Light) on One Life to Live. Walek is married to kind-hearted, unsuspecting Dr. Larry, when she is forced, under oath, to admit her past as a prostitute. The cold-hearted drilling of the D.A. stands in stark contrast to the desperation and self-loathing of Light's character as she watches her world unravel before friends and family. Light's performance amazes, and this is a television moment that truly leaves the audience breathless.
I wasn't kidding about loving my soaps -- or my Judith Light.
Staying Up Past My Bedtime, The Economy And Crepes
It turns out that a lot can change between a decade and a systemic economic collapse. Last week, Volvo challenged me to write about my top picks for late night eating near my Alma mater. While this would seem like a really easy topic for someone who likes both food and late nights as much as I do, let’s just say time and geography have not been on my side in this one ... [Read more]
We're Not That Close
* Quick note: this one's not for you Mom and Dad. And it's not because we're not close; it's just not for you.
The only thing I dislike more than overly chatty customer service is overly intimate customer service. Despite the fact that a whole lot of my life is on the Internet, I believe in boundaries, and I like them.
Back when you still had film developed, I can remember picking up some pictures from the one-hour photo. As I was pulling out my wallet to pay, the lab tech said, “Thanks for your business. It looks like you had a great vacation.”
I didn’t like that. You may think I’m rude, but I want there to be a wall between me and the people that help me in a business or commercial way. (Unless you’re my hair dresser. I’m not a complete freak.) We are not friends. We don’t share. There is no intimacy between us. I want to be another nameless, faceless customer in the crowd. Being recognized or having someone remember my dog’s name and favorite color isn’t a plus in my book.
Honestly, I find it downright creepy.
A few weeks ago at the bank, as I was depositing checks, the teller struck up a conversation with me. “So,” she said, “what do you do at the college?” (One of my checks was from a university.)
Despite the fact that I felt this was a little intrusive, I answered. “I teach,” I said.
“What do you teach?”
Yes, I can be paranoid, and I think way too much about stalking because of my love of procedural crime dramas, but even without those factors, I still don’t think I’d like these kinds of questions. It’s not like I was wearing a college t-shirt, something that would be visible to the world. The name of a college was on a check I was putting into the bank – a confidential matter in my opinion, just like having personal photos developed.
Want to know about my shoes, watch, hat or the book I’m reading? Fine. Those are items I display to the world. They are public. My bank deposits, photos, prescriptions and superstore purchases are not.
I stopped going to a particular Walgreen’s in Nashville because the pharmacist said, “So, have you gained weight or lost weight?” as I was checking out.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Have you gained weight or lost weight?” As if this really was his business. “It tends to go either way with this particular medication.” I also could have sworn he started to eye my waistline when I didn’t answer.
“Uh-huh,” I said. Then I took my purchase and left without answering. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t have an M.D. behind your name, you don’t get to ask about my meds or my weight.
But, the worst of the worsts occurred at Target a few years ago.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was on my monthly run through Target. As usual, I spent far more money than I should have. When the cashier told me the total, my face must have registered some sort of distress.
“Is everything OK?” she said.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I answered. “I just spent more than I should have. Again.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t think he’ll mind too much because you picked up the you know.” Then she eyed one of my bags.
“He?” I said.
“Your husband,” she said. Now, as we all know, I don’t have a husband. I have a fake husband when it comes to high-pressure sales people and credit card offers, but no actual husband. I also don’t wear any rings.
“My husband,” I said, mulling it over. “And the ‘you know’?”
“I think he’ll forgive you this time,” she said and eyed one of my bags again. It was then that I finally remembered that I might have gone down the "family planning" aisle during my shopping spree. (Not for me, of course, because I am an innocent angel oh parents who might have read this post despite the upfront warning not to do so.)
I felt violated. It was a terrible reminder that what we all trick ourselves into believing – that the people we encounter out in the world are just doing their jobs and certainly don’t have time to notice our measly (and embarrassing) individual purchases like tampons, various creams or books on less-than-mainstream topics -- never happens.
It is this long-standing denial that allows me to pass through the Wal-Mart with some form of my dignity intact.
But, that's all it is -- denial and lies. Or, at least, some people are paying a lot more attention than others. These days, I look for bloodshot eyes and a seeming inability to recognize reality when I shop. I’d take a good hangover or even an oxycontin problem over keen observational skills any day. I may not always get correct change, but at least I can pretend I have some privacy.
Save The Skeet
When I was younger, we took a lot of family vacations that were combined with various lawyers’ conferences. At nine, I took my first trip on a plane, and we went to Disney World. It was awesome (and that’s only talking about the plane trip), and since my dad took me with him to pick up some papers in the hospitality area, I had some unexpected and treasured one-on-one time with Mickey and Minnie Mouse.
For fourth grade Spring Break, we went skiing. I liked skiing, but what I remember most from that trip is boarding the chartered bus that would take us from the airport to our condos and being surrounded by attorneys demanding a stop to buy booze on the way. (I kid you not when I say there was an actual chant at one point along the lines of “li-quor store, li-quor store.”)
However, it was our trip to the Greenbrier in West Virginia when I was 11 that was my favorite vacation by far. It was July, and I loved everything about the place. There were huge indoor and outdoor pools as well as a bowling alley and movie theater in the hotel. (How is that even possible?) The Greenbrier is also one of the few places I know of where you can practice falconry even though my dad wasn’t handing over the money for that one.
Also, being 11, I was right at the cut-off age for the kids’ activity groups. (At lawyer conferences, it’s very important to separate the children from the adults as soon as possible so that networking and happy hour can commence immediately.) While at first I resented not being able to go with the 12 and older set, once I made a friend, we, armed with our respective sisters, ran the under 11 group. The popularity and power were intoxicating. People fought for the right to sit at our dinner table – where we enjoyed three-course meals and used all of the correct silverware so as not to shame our professional parents.
This was also around the time that the news was beginning to break that there might be bunkers for government officials built in various strategic locations throughout the country in the event of nuclear war. The Greenbrier was a prime candidate, and my sisters and I liked exploring the resort hoping to break the story wide open.
“I think I see a tear in the wall paper over there.”
“Does the wall sound hollow to you?”
Superb detectives we were not. Good shuffleboard players? Yes.
At 16, we went back to the Greenbrier, but it wasn’t quite the same experience. By then, the Greenbrier had admitted to its underground bunker, so it was very cool to actually tour it. On the other hand, trying to reconnect with my lawyers’ conference friends from five years earlier didn’t exactly go as I had hoped, and I was full of the expected teen angst.
I spent most of the week lounging by the pool and reading The Virgin Suicides.
My father did want us to participate in one day outing as a family, and it happened to be skeet shooting. He figured it was one of the safest ways for us to learn to use a gun. (Even though we’re not gun owners, as anxiety-driven people, we do feel compelled to know how to do all things in case an emergency should ever arise. The killer drops his weapon? Be prepared to take charge of the situation. Not that a shotgun is often used in burglary and/or stalker-confrontation moments.)
Anyways, being as I was, full of teen angst and toying with vegetarianism, I was fairly dead set against not going. I looked my father straight in the eye and said, “Doesn’t anybody think about the poor skeet? Why should they be sacrificed for sport? The poor things.”
“Laurel,” my father said, “skeet are clay pigeons. Clay.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I guess you’re coming with us?”
“I guess so.”
I’m sure my father has never been more proud that he paid for all of that private education.
Toy Story What?
So, is this a product marketed towards children or very, very short frat boys?
Cargo shorts, sunglasses and what looks like a Tervis tumbler? Either somebody's dad still wears his class ring and works out in tees from his '99 Beta formal, or this kid showed up with some scary, scary eyes on the day of the shoot.
My Top 5 Road Trip Play List
Being tone deaf and a huge nerd, my iPod is an embarrassment or riches – if you really love show tunes, Shakira and soulful girl ballads about break-ups. (When I was going through some old CDs from the mid-90s, a friend commented, “I didn’t realize you were a lesbian in high school.”) I have been making mixes titled “Mellow Music” since I was about 14 ... [Read more]