It is What it Is

In case no one noticed, Bob Barker announced his retirement from "The Price is Right" today. I think meeting a man named Laurel might have had something to do with it. I suppose after that, he really had seen it all.

What?!?!

Now, I was going to keep quiet today. I really was. But then something truly mind-boggling occurred, and I had to share it with the world. (And, by the "world," I obviously mean my three friends and an occasional lost internet tourist who was hoping for the other writing Laurel Mills who is a published poet and professor. Yeah - I don' t know what the big deal about her is either.) Anyway, I was watching "The Price is Right" (because that's what I put on the TV when it's 10:00 in the morning and I'm working from home and possibly also because I really am 65 years old on the inside) when, to my excitement, they called a "Laurel" out from the audience to contestant's row. And, of course, because of all the connotations I have with my name (please reference previous post "A Rose is a Rose" for further explanation), I was scanning the crowd for a lovely, rosy-cheeked lady. And, even allowing for the possibility of a scowling, filled-with-rage lady, I was still, above all else, expecting a lady. So, imagine my surprise when a fifty-year-old Asian man bounded out of his seat. Yep, the "Laurel" in question was a middle-aged man. And, before you ask, yes, he spelled his name exactly the same way I do. Hearing Bob Barker say my name over and over again to a dude was just too upsetting. I think I'm having identity issues. And, on a completely unrelated note, I always thought the word "diabetes" was pronounced die-a-bee-tees. Why, then, does Wilford Brimley continually say die-a-bet-ease? Have I been wrong all these years? I don't know whether or not I can stand pronunciation and identity issues all in the same day. It's a bit much.

Now, I know that I promised a story about Robert Townsend today, but, truth be told, I have movers coming, and I'm not quite ready for them. Check in tomorrow, and I'll be back to my old tricks again.

Seeing Stars

Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I had a brief brush with fame. When I was 17, like most everyone else, I had to go on the requisite "college trips." I'm sure we all remember the pain that that was - praying that your parents wouldn't ask stupid questions on the tour (you know, all of those ridiculous notions like, "is there a lot of drinking on the weekends?," "is it safe here?," "where are the bathrooms?"), feeling so embarrassed because all of the "adult" college kids are staring at you with your parents (because the only thing college kids care about is what the high schoolers touring their campus are doing), and then yelling at your mom not to stand too close to you in the bookstore while you pick up the requisite super cool college tee that you will casually wear to soccer practice on Tuesday like you might have just spent the weekend in a freshman's dorm room sneaking beers and staring at the magnificence of fuzzy posters under a black light, even though you really stayed in a hotel and shushed your mother whenever she asked questions during "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer." Well, in the fall of my senior year, my dad and I headed up to Providence, Rhode Island for the Brown, Tufts, and Dartmouth tour. And, because my dad tends to be not only thrifty on fares, but also prefers not to miss too much work, I think we had to be at the Birmingham airport around 5:30 in the morning. Even in high school, when I actually had to be somewhere by 8:00 a.m., I was not a morning person. So, needless to say, 5:30 a.m. was tough - especially when I knew I was going to spend the whole day ducking my head in shame and hiding behind my bangs every time my father looked in the direction of a college kid. Then, as my father and I approached the counter, I noticed something very strange in the waiting area for our flight... ...And that strange apparition was Little Richard. Now, if you think that man's head looks big on television, you have no idea how surreal it seems in person and at 5:30 a.m. pre-caffeine. I also have to say that of all the famous and semi-famous people I thought I might meet one day, Little Richard was not on the list, nor had he ever crossed my mind beyond that moment when he showed up at Bo and Nora's wedding on "One Life to Live" and got Nora to overcome her cold feet and boogie down the aisle towards her man. Little Richard is actually from Alabama in case you're wondering about his presence in the Birmingham International Airport. (By the way, don't dwell to long on the "international" in that title. It's mainly for show.) Anyway, the story ends like this: I waved and smiled at him. He smiled back and said hello. Then a member of his entourage (yes, he still warrants an entourage, and a seemingly large one at that) gave me a book about God and a postcard-sized, autographed photo of Little Richard. We all got on the plane, and I promptly fell asleep. Yes, that's my encounter with celebrity in all its glory. Tomorrow, I might tell you the story of me and Robert Townsend, but most people probably need a day to google that name and realize that he is, indeed, someone who has been in movies and on TV.

Week in Review

This has been a trying week. First of all, Tom Cruise not only wants to steal my psychotropic drugs, but my thunder as well. It is hard enough to share my birthday with the largest football rivalry in the state. Do you know how many people leave town to watch the game so that many years my celebration turns into 3 people sitting around a table in a nearly empty bar? Sure, someone usually thinks to bring a party hat, but that hardly makes up for the disparity in the crowd. And, now, TomKat has decided to get married on my birthday. Not only are our guest lists totally going to overlap, but for the rest of my life, I'll have to know that, not only am I aging, but also, somewhere in a Scientology compound far, far away, there's a strange anniversary celebration going on that probably involves the following exchange: "I love you for allowing yourself to be brainwashed into a fake religion and actually thinking I'm not gay." "I love you, too. Now, where's that tea I'm always drinking that makes me happy on the inside and insures how much I love watching kids play soccer?" And, then, someone I care for deeply was viciously attacked. Why did you have to pick on Michael, Rush? Why? Other than what I am sure are your flagging ratings, why? I have to let you know that Michael J. Fox was my first love. I adored him as Alex P. Keaton on "Family Ties." I once saw Courtney Cox in the County Seat jeans store at our local mall, and I totally freaked out because she got to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen "Back to the Future." And, as a child, I even wanted to be able to hear dog whistles so that I would have something in common with "Teen Wolf." (Odd wish - I know.) When I played Barbies, my dolls were not interested in Ken, but rather someone named Michael. I was serious about our love. And, I cried when Michael J. Fox went public with his diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. I admire his strength and determination in a situation where a lot of people would succumb to self pity. So, Rush, you've made me mad before, but you've really gone too far this time. Your next beef with Michael, you come looking for me. Mama don't like it when you go after her babies.

A Day in the Life

Since we all know that no one starts out on the top (and that beggars can't exactly be choosers), I recently wrote a piece for "Midwestern* Lady" magazine. And, not only was I writing for a magazine with "Lady" in the title, but I was assigned a piece about cheese straws. (For those of you who aren't Southern, a cheese straw is like a spicy cheese cracker, but its shape is more tubular.) For some of you who are already thinking this, when I told a co-worker that I was going to freelance for "Midwestern Lady," she kind of cocked her head to the side and asked, "Have they met you?" When I answered no, she said that I "should probably keep it that way." Anyway, I got a contract and some info in the mail from "Midwestern Lady" prior to beginning the article. "Midwestern Lady" informed me that they did not have any of the contact info to interview the owners of the cheese straw company, but I could probably call the magazine "Midwestern Woman" which had recently featured an article on them, and ask for those details. The 500 word article from "Midwestern Woman" was photocopied and included in the mailing to help me with my 500 word article for "Midwestern Lady." So, not only was I writing for "Midwestern Lady" magazine, but "Midwestern Lady" was the poor man's version of "Midwestern Woman" and proved it by ripping off story ideas from them. That was a low moment - a moment in which I was so glad that I spent so much time in school earning bachelor's and master's degrees. But, rather than calling "Midwestern Woman" magazine, oh-so-resourceful-me used a crazy thing called the world wide web, and found a phone number for the cheese straw makers. What follows is a pretty accurate excerpt from the most awkward interview ever: Me: So, what is your favorite part about running the company? Cheese Straw Lady (CSL from here on out): Well, I guess that's doing something different every day. You know, I'm not always in the office. Sometimes I'm on sales calls. Sometimes I'm at food shows. Me: I guess you could say you like being your own boss? (Polite chuckle on my part to build a friendly rapport) CSL: Well, I don't really know about that. I've never actually had a boss because I started this business right after I graduated college, so I can't really say I know what it's like to have a boss versus being the boss...I don't think I can comment on that. My internal monologue: Thank you for your humorless response to what was supposed to be more a rhetorical question/summation of your answer. Me (Aloud this time and trying to move on quickly): And, what's the hardest part about running your own business? (I ask this in the hopes that there will be something to inspire all of the other women out there thinking about starting their own companies or taking a new idea and running with it.) CSL: Oh, that's definitely the Health Department. They have so many rules when you're starting a food business. I can't tell you how many times they came out to the bakery before we got off the ground. There were just so many regulations... My internal monologue again: And, if those aren't the insightful words of a savvy businesswoman, I don't know what are. Even though I didn't get a whole lot from my interview that I couldn't have learned from the company's website, I turned my article in. A few weeks after my deadline, I got a call from the editors of "Midwestern Lady" telling me that my piece might need a few more edits because it was a little bit "edgy" for their publication. I, for one, had no idea it was possible to be "edgy" when writing about cheese straws, but I guess I was wrong. I turns out that I had to remove the term "Bloody Mary" from the article because alcohol mentions are "frowned upon." Even though the editors agreed that it was "certainly true" that cheese straws were usually served with the old Bloody, they didn't want to "push the boundaries." But, I think what really got them is the last paragraph I used to try and spice things up a bit. Here's the original draft: "Of course, any true cheese straw fan has one burning question for the ladies of the bakery, "I could tell you, but I would have to kill you," Kelley jokes, referring to how they make those familiar squiggles on the cheese straws. "We would really hate for that secret to get out," she says." "Yeah," the editor said, "I know that it's a joke and all...and it's a great joke (don't worry - I know this is not true)...but I just don't think we should mention murder here. It might scare some people." Ah, yes, because I was obviously implying that the women of a small commercial bakery were willing to hunt you down like dogs in the street should anyone figure out the "big secret" of how to put a squiggle pattern on a cheese straw. I naively turned the tone of the piece from readers imagining a sweet, rotund woman baking at home to a hardened Mafia wife who chain smokes and spits on the street while glaring at small children. For shame. I guess I really should have known better. [* Names and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect professional relationships. After all, when it's dignity or rent money - I have to go with rent money.]

Road Trip

I'm sure there are people who have lovely things to say about the Red Roof Inn...Unfortunately, I'm not one of them. Last night I had the pleasure/karmic punishment from one of my past sins like coveting Nicole Kidman's wardrobe or having impure thoughts about David Boreanaz of staying in the Red Roof Inn before my morning meeting in Nashville. Now, maybe I would have had a better experience if I hadn't chosen the Red Roof Inn right next to the highway. (I also think we all know how difficult it is to book a hotel room online, especially with a limited budget and lack of familiarity with the city. I liked that internet special and proximity to the office. I knew my own laziness would come back to haunt me one day, but how could my love of bargains get me in so much trouble? It's not like I was trying to buy a Gucci off the back of a truck or anything.) And, while some people might enjoy the lull of semis moving down the interstate well into the early hours of the morning, I found it a tad nerve-racking. Then there was no Lifetime or Bravo in the cable offerings. Is a girl supposed to make it through without a "Project Runway" marathon or reruns of the "Golden Girls"? The in-motel channel kept telling me to push the "menu" button on the remote for happiness (no joke), but I'm pretty sure that for most Red Roof patrons, happiness = porn, and I wasn't up for that. When I want my Estelle Getty, nothing else will do. (Now, I'd like to go on with my story, but this is the point where my father needs to stop reading so that he won't have a heart attack. I got my sense of worry/vigilance honestly. Daddy - remember that I'm home safe now and do have a slight tendency to exaggerate. Also - seriously - stop reading.) A little bit later, there was a phone call to my room at 1:00 in the morning by someone looking for Mohammad in what I can only assume is miscommunication over a drug deal, and I think I saw a man talking to a couple of "working girls" in the parking lot. (Either that, or they were just underage and looking for a crystal meth hook up. Who can tell these days?) I'm just thankful for deadbolts.

Weekend Woes

Question: How do you know when you've watched too much Lifetime? (And, yes, even for me this can happen.) Answer: When Sarah Chalke actually shows up in your dreams (because you've seen that commercial for "Why I Wore Lipstick to my Mastectomy" too many times), and, as if that isn't bad enough, in your dream she's killing old people for their homes and social security checks. (I know, I know - I didn't think lovely Elliot from "Scrubs" and the former second Becky from "Roseanne" was capable of such maliciousness either, but after watching "Single White Female 2: The Psycho," I realize that danger lurks everywhere.) (As another side note, "Single White Female 2" is not nearly as enjoyable once you get a sense of deja vu/carefully repressed memories moving dangerously towards the surface during some of the scenes. I once had a roommate go out and get my haircut. In a word? Awkward.) Also, in another bit of oddness/it's amazing what you'll find interesting when your entire day consists of watching Lifetime, one of the movies focused on 2 characters named Laurel and Susan. Now, Susan is the only person I know who can watch as much Lifetime as me, and, strangely enough, in proof of what is the true kismet and symbiotic nature of our friendship, the last time I realized that I had watched too much Lifetime, I was with Susan, and we both reached our "television for women" saturation point at the same moment. You see, Susan and I have spent many of our hangover days lying about the house with Lifetime on - usually I'm digging Doritos crumbs out of my bed from Susan's 4 a.m. snack and she's reminding me that no boy should ever see my yarn collection before the 7th date because otherwise, between that and the dog sweaters, he'll probably run away screaming. Sometimes we head out for a strange combination of Sonic tater tots, Captain Dee's hush puppies, and Taco Bell soft tacos, and sometimes we don't. Anyways, on one of said days, we were in the midst of "Bella Mafia" (a truly horrible film starring Jennifer Tilly, Vanessa Redgrave, Nastassja Kinski, and James Marsden as a very odd sociopath/incest-lover) when we both lost our will to live. I don't know if it was James' desperate attempts to make out with his mother, grandmother, and cousin, the presence of a wheezing pre-teen albino who was never fully explained by the script, or, oh yeah, the fact that it was 4 FREAKIN' HOURS LONG, but we still refer to that as "Black Tuesday." It was months before we could even flip past the channel without cringing. Luckily, we powered through for our annual celebration of Meredith Baxter-Birney, but it wasn't easy. (Since asides are my thing today, I feel the need to add that, although "Bella Mafia" is atrocious and is best avoided at all costs, the Lifetime movie neither Susan nor I can condone in any way, shape, or form, is "Danielle Steel's The Ring" wherein Nastassja Kinski plays the widow of a Nazi who lies about being Jewish to get a guy's attention in post-war America. Now, that's just wrong.)

A Trip to Party City

Should I be concerned that every Halloween costume I'm drawn to somehow involves "wench" in the title? (I thought it was a St. Pauly girl; they call it a beer wench. I wanted to obnoxiously say "Arrr" all evening; it's labeled a pirate wench.) And, then I find it difficult to justify spending more money when I already have an equally slutty costume from last year since all "hot" Halloween costumes for women involve some sort of corset-like top and short skirt. (I mean, I do have to be hot on Halloween. There's still a college freshman in me who really does need that much attention. Of course, I have "Miss Dorothy" because that's so much naughtier than regular old gingham-clad Dorothy and her adventures in Oz.) Two years ago I dressed as a washed up country singer (bad red wig and all) and told everyone that my one big hat was 1982's "Why did you have to destroy my credit while destroying my virtue?" It was fun, but I figured that I probably only have a few years left of being able to get away with the slutty get-ups, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Also, I've included the pumpkin picture to fit the theme and also prove that I really just am that good at carving pumpkins.

Two things are weighing on me today: 1. When did the word "sequel" stop meaning a continuation of the story (as in the incredible "Die Hard" trilogy, "Father of the Bride 2," and, from what I hear although I've never actually seen any of them, the "Star Wars" films), and start referring to a re-telling of the same story with a smaller budget and less credible dialogue (as in "Bring it On Again," "Cruel Intentions 2," and "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer")? 2. When I'm going to boil water, I always run the water hot before adding it to the pot, and when I'm going to make ice cubes, I always run the water cold before filling the tray. Although these actions seem intuitive and logical, I doubt they make any significant difference to either boiling or freezing water. Is it possible that the temperature of water pre-boiling or pre-freezing makes either process go any faster whatsoever? I know these questions sound rhetorical (like when I ask why LeeLee Sobieski is still allowed to make films or if Lindsay Lohan actually thinks that people buy this "exhaustion" excuse for a bad hangover), but they're not. Any answers/thoughts would be greatly appreciated.