It is What it Is

* Laurel Goes Super High Tech! *

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

Public Transportation & Me

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

Some Things I'd Like to Forget

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

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

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

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

A Night Out

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

Please Don't Disturb the Natives

Well, as I have always suspected, I should never worry about running out of ways to embarrass myself in front of strangers. Yesterday afternoon there was a knock at my door. I found this odd because I don't really know anyone in Chicago, and the few people who have been invited to my humble abode have "real" jobs and don't usually have time for lengthy visits in the middle of the day. (At least, this is what they tell me whenever I make too long phone calls to share the idiocy I saw on "Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency" or what I learned from Dr. Phil about internet dating.) Plus, who of a relatively sane nature would take those stairs for any purpose, let alone in an attempt to sell me Cutco knives or talk about the lord? When I checked the peephole, I realized that one of my worst fears had come true. (By the use of "worst fear" I am obviously exaggerating since "fears" is a very long list that includes plane crashes, the dentist, tall places without adequate fencing and/or walls, and having to watch "Vanilla Sky" again.) A few weeks ago, a note was stuck in my door explaining that since my lease had not been renewed for the next year, the leasing company might be showing people around the apartment whenever they felt like it. And, yesterday was that demonstrative day. I yelled out "just a minute" so that I could take a few moments to pull a sweatshirt on and wipe some of the more obvious dirt off the floor. Unfortunately, I didn't really have time to change out of my pajamas, wipe the crusted food from the corners of my mouth (because I may have been eating over the sink when said knock occurred), turn off my Lifetime movie, make the bed (again with the semantics, "bed" is actually an exaggeration of air mattress), wash the dishes, get the clothes off the bathroom floor, or swiffer. All of which are tasks that are probably normally accomplished before 3:00 in the afternoon. And, when you add my very excited dog to the mix, you end up with the shortest apartment tour on record. Last time I checked, girls with pointy boots pulled over their skinny jeans just to check out apartments have higher expectations than my more "relaxed" standard of living. Thus: my living quarters + strangers on a tour = Laurel's sufficient embarrassment for the week. (And some have said that math isn't my strong suit...) (Also, as a side note, of the 20 second tour, I did catch the leasing guy saying, "What's really nice about this unit is the balcony." I can't speak to Chicago rental norms, but the last time I checked a small jutting out from the window does not a balcony make. If you can't even open a folding chair on it, it's not a balcony. If there's only room for a house plant, it's certainly not a balcony. And, putting sliding doors there instead of picture window isn't fooling anybody.)

Heat Wave

I thought it was hot in Alabama. I really did. And, I don't think that there are many people who would argue with me on the point of whether or not it is indeed hot in Alabama. After all, I believe our seasons are best organized as: winter (6 weeks), spring (3 weeks sure to be full of early tornadoes), summer (months and months on end), and football (could offer any combination of the previous 3). Therefore, I'm having a hard time believing how hot I am in Chicago. At the end of every day, I'm pretty sure that I smell. And, I find some rather unattractive spots in conspicuous areas on my shirts. And, while the heat is nasty, what really bothers me about this weather has nothing to do with physical discomfort or general stickiness - it's an issue of pride. After all, if growing up in Alabama has given me anything, shouldn't it be an ability to withstand heat? And, shouldn't I be able to brag about the fact that I can take all that summer has to offer with no real consequences? (Admittedly, the one time I did boast of my ability to handle heat and mocked my Northern friends during my freshman year at Duke, I ended up being treated by a student EMT for heat stroke at a football game while they were fine, but bygones.) For all the redneck jokes I have endured and all the questions about whether or not my parents are cousins, shouldn't I at least have some sort of raw physical edge when it gets unbearably hot? Where is evolution and acclimation when you need it? But, alas, I cannot stroll through the streets of Chicago unmarked by sweat or heat while those around me scurry for air-conditioned cover and wipe their brows. Because of this, I must accept that no will be admiring my remarkably fresh presence in the city. And, growing up in Alabama might just have given me a love of fried foods and knowledge of all the words to "Friends in Low Places." Oh well. I guess I'll take what I can get. At least I didn't grow up with 6 months of darkness or anything.

Mondays

Years ago, when I was living in an "up and coming neighborhood" in Washington, D.C., my friend, Susan, was the first of my Alabama compatriots to pay me a visit. My house was a brand new federal-style townhouse, but it was also the first part of the neighborhood to be built up, so the surroundings were less than ideal. (I was just a tad accustomed to seeing crime scene tape on a semi-regular basis by the time I moved out.) Susan insisted on taking the subway, and since the stop was only 1 block from my house, I assumed that everything would be fine. (As a side note, I can't get used to saying "the el." I still want to say "metro" every time I talk about the train in Chicago. Why in the world does every city have to call their public transportation something different? I think it's odd. But, I guess it could be worse - I could be referring to Marta.) Anyway, about an hour after we talked, Susan still hadn't knocked on my door. Truthfully, knowing Susan, this wasn't that big of a surprise, and I didn't think much of it. (I add 45 minutes to all of Susan's eta's.) My roommate and I went out on our balcony and waited. And, about thirty minutes later, I saw her. There was Susan - wandering, dazed and a bit tilted to one side, down the alley behind my house. I called out to her, ran around to bring her inside the house, and then asked why she was walking behind all of the houses rather than coming through the manicured courtyard to the front door. She turned her eyes to me in something that I would call a "look of death." Susan then explained that she was lucky to even be there. Apparently, in the 1 block from the metro station to my house, Susan had been accosted by a man who wanted to sell her a dead pigeon wrapped in newspaper (Susan offered him double his asking price not to make her take the pigeon), and had a discarded shoe chucked at the back of her head by a homeless man (he missed.) In short, she was not pleased and thought I should pack my things and move out with her that night. But, instead we went to a bar, and all was smoothed over. (This tends to happen once Susan and I find a bar.) And, now Susan and I like to reference that night whenever there's a need for an "it could be worse" comment. So, as you sit at your desk today, thinking that the whole work week is ahead of you, ask yourself this one little question, "Is there a dead pigeon?" And, if the answer is "no," keep your hope alive. If, for some very odd reason, your answer is "yes," you'll have to fall back on the nearly foolproof, "Is there a shoe that probably spent at least 2 weeks in a city gutter flying at my head?"

TV Nostalgia

Since I have recently become reacquainted with some of the shows I used to love, I decided to make a list of some of the old sitcom standards I used to absolutely eat up: 1. The clueless character from a nutty town Sure, not-so-bright or spacy characters are still found all over television (as in Joey from "Friends"), but they don't seem to come from strange towns with their own bizarre sets of norms and customs anymore. Remember Woody Boyd from Hanover, Indiana on "Cheers"? The place that once voted Woody the "smartest student"? And, of course, Rose Nylund from St. Olaf, Minnesota? Does anyone else remember the episode where Blanche discovers Rose's St. Olaf war bonds and wants to cash them in? Rose pleads with her not to do it because it will bankrupt the town, and just as Blanche shreds the bonds, Rose tells her that St. Olaf is so grateful to Blanche that they're going to put a statue of her in the town square with money from the $500,000 emergency statue fund. Pure comedy. 2. The cross-over / spin off The women of "Golden Girls" lived down the street from Dr. Harry Weston of "Empty Nest." Sophia even kept Dr. Weston's dog when he was away. And, then, the hospital where Dr. Weston worked became the setting of "Nurses" and at one point starred a recently divorced Loni Anderson. "Growing Pains" spawned "Just the Ten of Us" by introducing Coach Lubbock. (I used to make my friends play "Just the Ten of Us" all the time with each of us choosing a character from the 4 older girls, Connie, Wendy, Cindy, and Marie.) "Who's the Boss?" gave us a young Leah Remini who moved to New York for "Living Dolls." "Diff'rent Strokes" gave us "The Facts of Life." Not since a hunky carpenter named Jake went from building a platform over the pool for Jackie Taylor's wedding to Mel Silver to living in an apartment building called "Melrose Place" have we truly seen a great spin-off. (This seems to keep coming up, but I prefer my spin-offs cheesy. I leave "Frasier" off my list, and for completely separate reasons, I'm also leaving "Joey" untouched.) 3. The over-sexed one I guess that a product of the openness of the 90's means that we can no longer have the truly over-sexed character. Remember when female characters were expected to be virgins when they got married? Tootie on "The Facts of Life"? Denise from "The Cosby Show"? And, the spectrum allowed its opposite: Mona of "Who's the Boss?" (whose constant cracks about Angela being flat used to amuse me to no end), the indomitable Blanche Devereaux, and Sue Anne Nivens of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," among others. Anyway, I just wanted to take a little walk down memory lane. Every time I accidentally end up watching something like "Four Kings" or "Home Improvement," I can't help but wish for the good old days.

A Site Worth Checking Out

Having hit a writer's block of sorts, I thought I would let you all know about something I enjoy greatly, but you might not have heard of: You can actually buy the TLC-advertised "Life Lessons" figurines at the Discovery Channel online store. (Now, I realize that some of you may be like a very dear friend of mine who had to stop watching The Learning Channel because she was worried she would never have children of her own after watching women climb naked into kiddie pools of warm water while their friends watch them give birth bent over on all fours on "A Baby Story." This is thoroughly understandable, but I promise there is a reason to give TLC another chance.) The figurines look like so many collectibles you could find at Hallmark or Kirkland's, but include truisms like "Merlot and e-mail don't mix," "Dating is awkward but so is becoming the crazy cat lady," and "Nothing can ruin a career faster than an office party." Enjoy: www.tlc.com

A Brief Note to my Leasing Company

Dear DemingOne, LLC: Don't get me wrong; I truly appreciate all that you have done to improve the standard of living in my apartment building. (Especially the central air.) My large picture window gives me a lovely view of the condo building across the street, and Lord knows I love the cable. I imagine that it's not easy to take a building that was constructed sometime during the Depression and make it worthy of a four-figure rent in the new millennium. And, while I also enjoy my exposed brick and hardwood floors, I can't help but wonder if there might have been better uses for your renovation budget. Yes, it's true that flooring and better walls improve the aesthetic of a home. (Although, I will admit that I still don't understand the "hipster" quotient of providing exposed air ducts. The large silver tubes that run across my ceiling just seem a bit lazy - especially the one that still bears the price tag from the warehouse.) But, my apartment is pretty, so bygones. However, with all of the funds that you obviously had to go into the building (those washers and dryers are quite state of the art), I can't help but wonder about one tiny thing - why in the world didn't you think about an ELEVATOR? Seriously, elevators are great. Not only are there bright, big buttons that you can push, but they also offer this crazy element of convenience that people the world over tend to be incredibly grateful for. Has anyone ever asked to walk to the top of the Sears Tower? When you're showing potential renters around, do they commonly ask whether in lieu of a workout facility there might be an obstacle to their homestead? Has Grandma ever said that she needs to waste 30 more minutes before her stories are on so it would be just great to encounter a flight of stairs before going back home? I think the answer to all of these question is "no." (Unless, of course, we're talking about sadists. I can't speak for the sadists.) The other night when I came home from IKEA with my new Swedish furniture choices, I literally felt my heart beating out my chest after climbing the 4 stories to my apartment again and again. And, when I came back from Target with a new Swiffer Sweeper Vac, I again worried about a premature, full-on body collapse. And, those are the somewhat extreme examples that don't even go into the daily routine wherein my dog beats me up 2 flights of stairs because I simply don't think I can go on anymore. In short, I love elevators. I think most people do. And, if I were to bet on a way to really compete in Chicago's tough rental market, I'd scratch the "cool" decorating for a well-run metal box that goes from floor to floor. Your truly, Laurel Mills P.S. Please don't take away my cable because I dared to speak my mind. If nothing else, my silence can be bought for a song (and by "a song," I mean cable.) Just keep me posted.