It is What it Is

A Rose is a Rose?

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

The Moments I Live For?

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

You've Really Got to Think About who that Babysitter Is

This past Friday, I went to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate my baby cousin's birthday. Chuck E. Cheese was pretty much as I remembered it - screaming children, loud bells and whistles, the ever present smell of pizza, and a wandering mascot. But, there were 3 major differences from the play land I knew as a child: 1. There is no more animatronic band. Yep, it seems that the "Showbiz Players" (or whatever they were called) have disappeared. There is no cuddly bear, no mouse cheerleader, no tambourine. Instead, there's just one large Chuck E. Cheese who occasionally moves about. And, even though the logical part of me knows that I was terrified of the animatronic band and all of its mechanical gyrations, I still missed it. (Although this probably comes as no surprise to anyone, many aspects of Chuck E. Cheese scared me as a child. I was also nervous about the ball pit. I was convinced that there either was no bottom or that it was like getting into the deep end of the pool, and I would somehow end up drowning in the ball pit, and they would find my poor little body tucked just beneath the surface with a large red plastic ball trapped in my still open, I-was-trying-to-scream mouth. Needless to say, that was not how I wanted to go.) Plus, with no animatronic band, there is more time to broadcast poorly done music videos starring struggling character actors as furry creatures, and I fully believe the band is the lesser of those 2 evils. 2. It seems a whole lot easier to earn tickets. Now, it may be that it was always pretty simple to win tickets, but because I was a kid it seemed really hard. Sure, that could be the explanation. (And, sure, my trouble with tickets could have had a lot to do with my lack of coordination and fear of many games...) But, based on how many 6 year olds I saw wandering around with their hands full of big prizes, I think they've just made the games easier. I, for one, am disappointed. We've got to remember to challenge our children. And, even though Chuck E. Cheese is supposed to be a "happy place," a little strife never hurt anybody. Or, maybe, it does hurt, but that's how we get artists, great novelists, and ministers. I'm just asking for a few more hurdles; it's good for growth. 3. I noticed what I've decided to call "the hidden danger" of Chuck E. Cheese. Lots of children were brought by their grandparents. At first glance, this would seem lovely. The kids are spending time with their grandparents, this is a special activity for the kids, and everyone is having a good time. However, once you dig beneath the surface, something more sinister rears its ugly head. I saw one Grandma standing next to her grandson and feeding him token after token while repeating, almost mantra-like, the phrase, "Get the bonus, Baby. Get the bonus." And, that's when I realized that when Grandma isn't at Chuck E. Cheese, she's on the bus from the senior center down to the casino with a bucket of quarters in her lap. Grandma loves the slots, and she's probably turning poor Bobby into a slots-lover too even though he's at least 12 years away from being able to gamble legally. When they go home, Grandma probably only lets her grandson watch PBS or the celebrity poker tournament because she can be sure there won't be too much sex or violence on either of those. Little Bobby is learning to love risk, and he doesn't even know it. That's right, people - Chuck E. Cheese isn't just a wonderland of games and lights, it's a training ground for the future gamblers of the world. Let's get the word out, so this "hidden danger" won't be kept in the dark anymore.

My Diet

Friday evening, I ate out. This is pretty normal for my weekend activities, and I didn't have anything of interest in the fridge, so it was also necessary. For most of dinner, I was enjoying myself immensely - I had good food, good company, and speedy service. For awhile, all was well. Then, as the waitress came over to refill my drink about halfway through the meal, she looked down at my plate and said, and I quote, "You go girl!" She laughed, too. Now, as a female and a human being with feelings, I don't really like it when people comment on how much I've eaten. I especially don't like it when they seem awed my how much food I've consumed. And, to best convey my upset, I should probably mention the name of the "restaurant" now. This didn't happen at some sort of swanky place only visited by anorexics and low-carb addicts so that you understand why the wait staff isn't used to people finishing their meals. This happened at IHOP! IHOP, people - as in THE INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES! Don't you think they've probably seen people actually drink the syrup there? Sure, I may have been eating something called the Pancake Combo, but it was incredibly economical. And, I may have asked for both chocolate chip pancakes and bacon strips, but I hadn't eaten all day. Plus, at the risk of beating a dead horse, isn't this IHOP? Isn't this one of the few places one is free to eat beyond all normal standards of what is healthy and/or gross without repercussion? (IHOP and The Cheesecake Factory, right?) Short of ordering pure lard rather than butter or heavy cream on my buttermilk short stack, is there really any request I can make that the IHOP hasn't heard before? The next time the waitress came back to refill my diet coke (let's not dwell on the irony here), I could barely look her in the eye. With a few words, she had taken my meal from "highly enjoyable" to "full of shame." I don't think my self-esteem has been the same since.

Lost in Translation

Now, it may seem strange to you that anyone willing to admit her love of soap operas, made-for-television movies and Unsolved Mysteries, would still have shows that she doesn't want anyone to know she watches, but it's true. Even I have programming skeletons in my closet.

So, I'm just going to put it out there -- I really like Ghost Whisperer. I'm not sure what it is about the show. On many levels, I still cringe when I remember paging through Seventeen magazine and reading interviews with Jennifer Love Hewitt wherein she insisted everyone close to her called her "Love." I mean, that's simply not acceptable. You don't change your name to a new age name if you weren't born with one. Because, after all, you can't try to be a "Rainbow" or a "Peace." If you're given that name at birth, you live with it, and you own it. If not, you call yourself Jennifer or Emily or whatever else the birth certificate says, just like the rest of the sane world, and you're grateful that your parents are conformists.

And, if for some reason, that "concept name" sneaks its way in via the middle name as in the case of JLH, you push it out with equal force, and deny, deny, deny. You certainly don't ask people to actually call you by said name/unfortunate delusion your parents were suffering from in the wake of a 20-hour labor that made "Love" seem like a good naming choice. (Don't be too hard on them. At least it's not Kal-El Cage.)

Coffee Talk

I haven't been able to put together many intelligent thoughts today, and I think it might have something to do with the fact that I'm still reeling from a conversation I had earlier: Setting: Starbucks Me: (Approaching the table with my tall drip coffee) Is that the skim milk you have there? Stranger: (Holding a large silver pitcher) No, it's the non-fat milk. Sorry. At the risk of sounding too much like Britney Spears in a particularly embarrassing and widely circulated video out take from her series "Chaotic" - huh? I guess this is how the universe repays me for dissing the thesaurus yesterday.

Too Little, Too Late?

Back in the day, when I taught English 101 (poorly, I might add), I would make a list at the beginning of the semester with 4 words on it: good, bad, interesting, and different. I told my students that I never wanted to see any of these words in their papers, and that if they encountered one of these terms while proofreading their work, they had to replace it with something else. "Why?" you might ask - because I don’t know what any of those words mean. Rather, I know what those words mean to me, but I have no idea what they mean to you. Your mom might be a "good" parent because she takes care of you by doing your laundry, cooking your meals, and picking up your towels off the bathroom floor. Or, she might be a good mom because she made you do certain chores for yourself and thereby taught you self-reliance. Just based on the word "good," I have no idea. Similarly, Mr. Johnson who lives across the street could be a "bad" neighbor because he constantly has parties and takes up all the parking on the street. Or, you could think he’s a bad neighbor because he killed your cat. There’s a world of difference there - not to mention a gross disparity in how much sympathy you’re going to get from me. So, when my students stumbled on one of those terribly vague and awfully subjective little words, they were supposed to get much more specific and use clear examples to illustrate and explain the ideas and concepts in their writing. As most of us who have been in an English class know, you can’t just tell me you’ve got a great best friend and expect me to fully back your argument - you’ve got to show me. Of course, I was largely ineffective at getting this idea across. More so than anything else, I just seemed to develop an ever-expanding list of words that were not concrete and much too open to interpretation, especially without the teacher-begged-for examples - words like things, cool, neat, fun, likable, enjoyable, evil, likely to change, etc. Much to my continuing frustration, when I said "replace these vague terms with specific illustrations," my students heard, "go to the thesaurus function in Microsoft Word." For the most part, I try to block out my teaching days. After all, that year of my life tended to involve way too much crying and yelling. (The yelling occurred on the part of the students by the way. I certainly never worried about the extent of swear words in their vocabulary, although sometimes their verbal abuse did lack for proper conjugation. "No, Jenny, I suck, and she sucks - not you sucks.") But, yesterday on the train, I became overwhelmed with the desire to give my little lesson on specificity and word choice to a stranger. In a conversation sparked by none other than ever-present Dan Brown and his "Deception Point," random girl on the train started in (at a very high volume) on how she wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t "good," and in a shocking corollary to that statement, how much she hated "bad" books. This went on for most of my commute. I almost wish is was possible to elaborate on her conversation, but considering that mainly the words "good" and "bad" were repeated over and over again, it would be hard. (From here on out, I’ll try to ignore the fact that it hurts me to hear "The Da Vinci Code" referred to as a "good" book. "The Da Vinci Code" is entertaining. It’s suspenseful. It keeps the reader’s attention. But, is it full of beautiful language? Does it create thought-provoking and multi-dimensional characters? Does it offer profound commentary on human nature or a particular world view? I give those questions a "no," and so "The Da Vinci Code" doesn’t make the "good" designation in my book. Yes, I am a book snob. But, just because I won’t go with "good," doesn’t mean that I don’t recognize it as an "entertaining" read. Otherwise, let’s agree to disagree.) Anyway, my point is this - as girl on the train was going on, and on, and on, I wished that I had a tape recorder so that I could get her ranting down and play it for all of those former students. Behind my constant harping on nebulous language and poor word choice is simply this lesson - if you’re going to talk or write or use your unique voice, you ought to say something. While this stranger was rambling on and on with only words like "good" and "bad," she wasn’t really getting any sort of point or opinion across. (Do I know what she has read? Do I know why she picks up a book? Do I even know a title of one of these supposed "good" books? No.) Sure, she was talking, but she wasn’t saying anything. Without illustrative and thoughtful language, it is nearly impossible to communicate our thoughts and perspectives. This is why I love literature and language. Unfortunately, discovering teaching techniques a year after the fact is probably why I didn’t make a very good educator.

Location, Location, Location

As I have alluded to before, the leasing company that owns my apartment building seems willing to list anything and everything as a special "feature" that comes with signing a lease on Dakin street. The glorified window sill off my front window is a "balcony."On Thursday, I overheard the little clouded window in my shower referred to as a "bonus" because of the "incredible natural light" it provides. (Lies, I tell you. All that little window provides me with is a little extra anxiety every morning as I wonder whether or not anyone can see in from the outside. I assume the answer is "no," but how can I ever really be sure?) And, as I have listened to these ridiculous pitches over and over again, I can't help but wonder why the leasing agents continually ignore my absolute favorite "feature" of the apartment. My apartment doesn't exactly have a stellar view. From the front, I overlook the street below and a newly renovated condominium building. And, from my bedroom, I would stare directly into the balcony and living room of my neighbor, but because I loathe the idea of opening the blinds at the wrong time and having an awkward eye contact moment with said neighbor, I've decided it's easier to just never, ever open that window or remove it's covering. Simply put - I don't have the skyline or lake sightings many Chicagoans can boast. So, my favorite part of all the scenery that surrounds my living quarters is a little piece of landscaping I've come to know as "the break-up tree." You see, when you look into the branches of the tree only a few steps from my front door, you see a lovely array of men's clothing that I assume must have landed there after being tossed out an open window during some sort of argument over recently discovered cheating. (Sometimes, when I get really carried away, I imagine that you could hear the screaming all the way down the block and there might have been some Usher "Confessions"- level bad behavior going on.) The best part of the break-up tree is that it is a gift that keeps on giving. Sometimes, when there's a storm or a particularly strong wind, yet another piece of men's clothing falls from the tree to the ground. This morning, it was a pair of boxers. (With all of the stuff that continues to fall out of the tree, I don't think our philandering ex got away with much of a wardrobe after the fight.) And, while this may not be what everyone would consider the best part of living in my apartment, I think it is as equally valid as the non-existent balcony and natural lighting being touted on a near daily basis by paid "professionals."

Casa de Laurel

This past weekend, I had some out of town visitors from the great state of Alabama. And, since one friend stayed with me and another stayed elsewhere, it made me think about the vast differences in accommodations between a stay with unemployed Laurel and an overnight visit with our other artist friend - who we'll refer to as "the good one" from now on. 1. The good one's condo is beautiful. It has state of the art appliances, a very large flat screen TV, and furniture most people would kill for. It is also a two bedroom, so visitors get their own room complete with a memory foam mattress. In contrast, my apartment is largely empty and inflatable. I only have 4 pieces of furniture in Chicago and half of them require air pumps. Thus, your options pretty much include having a seat on the inflatable blue chair from Target or sleeping on the air mattress from K-Mart. Oh wait - I forgot something. If neither of those options is appealing, there's always the deflated air mattress that has a hole in it, but still resides on the living room floor so that my dog can lay on it during the day. I suppose that could get thrown into the mix as well. 2. Little did I know before this weekend, but apparently the good one brews fresh green tea in the morning and serves it to you with breakfast. Based on the previous description of my apartment, I hope you feel free to assume that I don't have a tea set. In fact, I'm lucky if I can find a clean glass. And, while I don't have gourmet beverages, I am willing to run down to the market across the street where not much English is spoken and pick up a diet coke or apple juice for my guests. What can I say? I'm just that giving. 3. A stay with the good one means that you will be chauffeured around the city in a pristine BMW. From my apartment, we get around by glorious public transportation. If you're really lucky (as my friend was this past weekend), I'll even pick the car with a large panhandling woman in a "Hustle 24/7/365" t-shirt who has her screaming baby with her that won't stop sticking his hands down his own dirty diaper. Please, please - don't everyone start looking into flights to visit me in Chicago now. I know I've given a pretty good sales pitch... Actually, I think I'll stop writing now. I need to give the good one a call and see if he's interested in a live-in maid or personal assistant.

Supermarket Sweep

Yesterday I went to the Trader Joe's grocery store. Trader Joe's is probably best known for their plentiful selection of 2 buck chuck (the Charles Shaw wines that never cost more than 3 dollars), but their other claim to fame is the high quality of their organic, pesticide-free, incredibly natural foods. Personally, I'm not all that big into the organic market. I love my nutrasweet. I like the fact that the food in my freezer can survive for decades because of the wonder that is preservatives. Truth be told, if it tastes great, I don't necessarily need to know what's in it or how it was put together. Don't believe me? I still eat hot dogs on a regular basis. But, Trader Joe's isn't very far away, and did I mention the fact that they sell really cheap wine? So, on to the story of my actual grocery shopping...I found some veggies, and I decided that I wanted some deli meat as well. When I got to the sliced turkey, I noticed that the big selling point at Trader Joe's is the fact that their meat is "antibiotic free." Now, I can understand why it would be important that your meat is steroid free. (Again, though, maybe this is why I would make a bad farmer. It seems like a bigger turkey would be a better turkey. As long as there was no poultry related roid rage, I could get on board with that.) I can even understand why some people like to know that their turkey was raised in the lovely open air of Nova Scotia with kind workers who gave the turkeys baths in Evian water and blow dried their tail feathers. Sure, I'm not this person, but I can see where it might be an appealing notion. But, I would prefer that my turkey be treated with antibiotics rather than not. If that sucker is sick, pump it up with some benadryl or amoxicillin or whatever it takes to make it well. I certainly don't want to be the one eating turkey that was "cured" with acupuncture, aromatherapy or holistic medicine. If it's the meat going into my body, I want the use of traditional Western veterinary medicine. You could hose that baby down with disinfectant, and I'd be a happy camper. Rather than being a plus, I have to say that "antibiotic free" was a big detriment in my book. I walked away from the all natural meat and will probably be getting some nice Butterball brand turkey later this afternoon. And, please no e-mails about what's really in that one. I truly am happier not knowing.