It is What it Is

Tough Choices: The Princess Diaries

Now, there are questions in life that I'd need to take my time answering: What do you think would be the best course of action in Iraq? How should the justice system cope with repeat sex offenders? Who made the better Becky on "Roseanne"? Will that be light or regular cream cheese?

But, the one question I know that I could answer without any hesitation is this one: Are you ready to be Queen?

Seriously, that one only needs two words - the first being "hell," and the second being "yes."

I tend to think that's the one role I've been preparing for all my life. Sure, my "preparation" didn't involve any sort of actual grooming for the position like I'm sure they do in Monaco or Norway, but I certainly have skills that translate. I like bossing people around. I like gowns and parties. I love tiaras. I can stand on a balcony and wave. Really, the fact that I have yet to be named the figurehead leader of a small European monarchy is beyond me.

Yet, every movie that deals with queens (and, of course, the movies I'm referring to don't have Helen Mirren as the star, I'm definitely in the Anne Hathaway/Julia Stiles terrain here) seems to end up revolving around a makeover sequence, a love interest and the question of whether or not the female protagonist is capable of being the queen. In both "The Princess Diaries" and "The Prince and Me," it seems to me that there's a lot of whining and even, dare I say, resentment of being asked to take on the princess/queen role, and this is something that I just can't understand.

Trade in my life of cramped office space, dirty apartment living and a dangerously low checking account balance for a castle and some servants? That really would be "living the dream." (As opposed to how I now use "living the dream," which usually also involves an eye roll and a heavy sigh while staring at the multiple spreadsheets piled on my desk every morning.)

Let's just say that the next time Anne Hathaway, Julia Stiles or any other twenty-something doesn't feel up to the job of royalty, I'm more than happy to step in.

I don't foresee a problem rising to the occasion.

Channel Surfing

In what might be a slightly premature declaration, I believe that I've found my favorite new show of the 2007 season. Last night, I made the mistake of thinking that "Heroes" premiered at nine rather than eight. (Yes, I realize that there's no excuse for getting this one wrong, considering the fact that it's not like "Heroes" is a little known phenomenon with no advertising behind it and all.) I was sad that I missed "Heroes," but since my television was already on NBC, I decided to go ahead and watch "Journeyman" when it came on.

And, that's when I fell in love.

I probably should have seen this coming. Most anyone who reads this blog is aware of the fact that I tend to regard time travel and wrong-righting very highly. But, almost because of how highly I regard "Quantum Leap" and it's storytelling wonder, I didn't think I would ever find another venue where these same premises would intrigue me.

For those needing a metaphorical perspective, if I were dating my television (which some Saturday nights, it feels like I am), "Quantum Leap" would be the ex on a pedestal that no one else could live up to or "the one that got away."

So, to say the least, I was taken by surprise when "Journeyman" found its way into my heart so quickly. I was so enamored, in fact, that it wasn't until this morning that the fear set in.

You see, I have loved like this before. Oh, "Class of '96" and a young Kari Wuhrer, how I tuned in every week. "Cupid" - where you could find Jeremy Piven before his days on "Entourage" - was a real treat. Even "Reunion," the show that was more bad-good than good, held my attention with it's ridiculous flashbacks and drawn out murder mystery. That's not even mentioning every attempt at a sitcom Bonnie Hunt has ever made, "Freaks and Geeks," "Jack & Jill" and "That's my Bush." I loved them all.

Then, the networks took them all away. Sure, you can say that it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but I still don't know which of the five friends killed Samantha Carlton on "Reunion" and that irks me. I even promised myself that I wouldn't do this again - that I couldn't jump in to the fall schedule so quickly without considering the potential heartbreak.

After all, I don't know if "Journeyman" and I will last. And, even if we start off strong, who knows is we can make it through a whole season or how many years we'll have? One? Three? Dare I dream - five?

I suppose, awful pun intended, that I'll be taking a quantum leap of faith on "Journeyman" this year. (Oh, it's terrible, isn't it? For some reason, when the opportunity for a pun is there, I just have to take it. It's like kleptomania or car keys if you're a drunk Lindsay Lohan.)

Please wish us the best, and, if you have the time, give the show a shot. My love alone won't be enough to keep it on the air.

Virtual Reality

Surprisingly (at least it was a surprise to me), the hardest part of "simpsonizing" myself was choosing the background. (Yes, I'm a little behind on this clever marketing ploy associated with "The Simpsons Movie," but the traffic to the site when the movie was actually popular was terrible, and I'm not the most patient person.)

When asked to choose between the nuclear power plant, a school, a kitchen and a TV studio, I was forced to be pretty honest with myself. Sure, I'd like to pretend that I know enough about science to work in a nuclear plant (only because it would be an affirmation of my intelligence, not because I'd want to grow a third arm) or that I'm domestically talented enough to spend hours in the kitchen, I think we all know that's not the case. At my most self-aware, I realize that I'm much more likely to be found picking up some Cool Ranch Doritos, a big gulp of Diet Coke and sour Skittles down at the BP station rather than leading a group of impressionable, fresh-faced third graders in an elementary school class room or working behind heavy, expensive, difficult-to-maneuver equipment on a set.

So, my animated self is at the Kwik-E-Mart - just as she should be.

(On another note, I realize that my Simpson is very thin and svelte and in heels. This not-being-in-denial-about-oneself thing doesn't need to happen all at once. Baby steps. Baby steps.)

Think Before You Style

Since yesterday was Sunday, I, of course, spent most of my afternoon watching Lifetime and drinking copious amounts of diet coke. (Ah, how I do love to live it up on the weekend ...) And, since this pretty much encompasses all of the "activity" that occurred for me in the last few days, it's also what I'm going to write about.

Therefore, I apologize in advance to anyone reading this with testosterone or some sense of dignity when it comes to their entertainment choices.

My favorite movie from this action-packed weekend was "Thy Neighbor's Wife," a revenge romp starring the lovely Kari Wuhrer. (By "movie," I actually mean "heavily edited piece of what was soft core porn that hopefully made more sense before losing key chunks of plot and/or dialogue because pivotal scenes also involved gratuitous nudity.")

In "Thy Neighbor's Wife," Kari Wuhrer becomes the live-in help for Nicole and Scott, a couple with a strained marriage, and their daughter, Darla. For reasons that should be clearer, Kari has a beef with the world that she wants to take out on the family. Mom Nicole is a diabetic, so plenty of cooking with sugar and other homicidal acts ensue.

Now, I could address the poorly scripted seduction scenes in the movie or why a family with an 18-year-old needs a nanny, but what most concerned me about this "film" was the depiction of Nicole and Scott's marriage.

It was easy for Kari Wuhrer to work her feminine wiles on Scott (played by Jeff Trachta, pictured) because of the conflict in Nicole and Scott's marriage. Nicole and Scott spend the parts of the movie when they're not getting it on (remember, this was once porn), arguing about how much time she spends at work and how she never pays attention to her husband. I believe there's even some dialogue in which Scott complains that his wife doesn't respect his feelings or his opinions.

And, while I'm sure these issues arise between many couples in the world, no matter how much Scott poured his heart out about his hurt, I couldn't help but side with his wife.

You see, if I was a successful businesswoman bringing home the bacon, I'm pretty sure I would also have trouble listening to the thoughts and concerns of a man with a semi-mullet. (Hell, even if I didn't work and instead spent my days keeping up with my stories and eating cream cheese frosting from a plastic tub with my fingers, I'd have trouble taking that guy seriously.) How can one be expected to respect someone who honestly believes that haircut is a good choice?

There's the length. And the poufy bangs. And the feathering. (Dear God - the feathering.) Plus, "Thy Neighbor's Wife" was made in 2001. It's not even like the actor can use the excuse that he didn't know any better or "that was just the style."

I remember 2001 well Jeff Trachta, and this hair, indeed, was not "the style" then.

And, while I don't want to seem that I'm doing too much to support an image-obsessed American culture, I suppose I believe that what you do with your head matters. I might wear curlers when I leave the house, but in doing so, I must also accept that people will see me as a "loony" rather than a with-it young professional. By the same token, if I want my partner to take me seriously, there can be nothing that makes one think of a mullet, no matter how fleeting that thought may be, happening above the neck.

I'd like to think that if Scott had considered his hair choices more thoroughly before Kari Wuhrer caused his wife to slip into an irreversible diabetic coma, "Thy Neighbor's Wife" just might have had a happier ending.

The End of Summer

In general, I'm pretty sad to see summer go. I like being able to lay out, the slew of big budget blockbuster films in theaters and not having to worry about seasonal depression.

However, one thing I won't miss is a nightly game in my-not-so-great neighborhood that I like to call "Gunshots or Fireworks." (A little hint for those who live in relative safety: The number of pops you hear is how you decide. Two pops? Three? Could go either way. Fifteen pops? You're pretty safely in the illegal fireworks show category.)

Yes, with the end of summer, I'll know for sure that the sounds I hear at night are probably coming from random (or premeditated - who am I to say for sure) acts of violence.

And, at least being armed with that knowledge means that going to the window in hopes of seeing some beautiful, illuminated star burst in the night sky probably won't go terribly, terribly awry.

Laurel's Law #34

This probably comes as no surprise, but throughout my 27 years, I have devised numerous theories on the workings of the universe and human kind. (Leelee Sobieski must have sold her soul to Satan for success in Hollywood, Donny Osmond would be sweeping floors if he hadn't had Marie for a sister, there was never a need for the Almond Joy candy bar, etc.) And, while for years these ruminations were only known by me and strangers who might have the misfortune of sitting near me on a plane, now that I have a blog, I can share my thoughts whenever I feel like it. Let's just say that America really is a great nation.

So, to share yet another of these theories, here are the three things I'm sure are never of interest to anyone but oneself:

1. Pets. Now, I'm not claiming that I'm not guilty of this one, but, in general, I recognize that no one actually cares what your dog does when you give it a bath or how that latest visit to the vet went. For the most part, dog behavior is pretty uniform. And, while this may be a shock to some of the parents out there, the same can also be true of your baby - especially if the story you're thinking of telling involves the phrase "just won't take the nipple," "poo-poo," or "episiotomy." No one needs that.

2. Vacation photos. I'm sorry, but one of the last things I ever want to be forced to look at is vacation photos. (I might choose them over photos of any of the three cautionary phrases mentioned in the last example, but I can't really say for sure.) Unless a UFO landed during your trip to the Eiffel Tower or Grand Canyon, I'm positive I know what you're talking about - without the visual. And, if you don't work for National Geographic, I really prefer to be spared the stacks and stacks of snapshots. Great stories from your trip? Absolutely. Having to hear that story while you point out how tiny ketchup bottles are in Germany in four different photos? No, thank you.

3. Dreams. We all have crazy dreams. In fact, that's kind of why there are all those theories about the subconscious and people love to throw around the names "Freud" and "Jung." And, I certainly understand the desire to share all of those wild inner workings with someone else, but there's probably nothing worse than arriving at the office on a Monday morning to hear, "Good weekend, Laurel? You will not believe what I dreamed about Saturday night ..." It may be a sign of my age, but I can't feign the slightest bit of interest in that anymore. I will allow for the caveat that if you dream about my car stalling on the railroad tracks before an oncoming train and you have a good track record with these things coming true (yes, you must me both requirements), I'm willing to lend an ear. But, otherwise, please keep any "so I was trying to get to this house, only it wasn't my house because the staircase was on the outside rather than the inside, and then my mom was flying a kite with Jodie Foster" to yourself.

Living the Dream

Sometimes, my current career path takes me to fascinating places. (There's nothing like writing a story on exotic cat breeds that might be perfect additions to your family to get the pulse racing.)

But, few moments are as exciting as the one I had while I was conducting an interview last week.

I was talking to a former soap opera star when she paused.

"You know," she said, "I played the first runaway teenage alcoholic on daytime television."

"I did not know that."

"Yep, it's true." (This was followed by a rather dramatic, pregnant pause.)

"I'll be sure to write that down," I said.

What I love about this comment is that you know my interviewee was obviously not the first teenager on a soap opera, or even the first runaway or alcoholic on daytime. It is only the unique trifecta of "the runaway teenage alcoholic" that sets her apart.

I guess it's only fair to say that she broke the mold.

Thank God I'm Decent Looking

Recently, my sister lent me the first season of "Lost" on DVD. Since I've always wanted to get into "Lost" but lacked the discipline to stay tuned week after week without the incentive of Hugh Laurie, and the show "really freaks my sister out" so she didn't want the DVDs anymore, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to catch up on all that I've missed.

This past weekend, I started watching the DVDs, and then, almost before I realized what was happening, I had watched all 24 episodes in a span of four days. (Word to the wise: Don't do this. That much "Lost" in such a short period of time without commercials is like watching the longest, most intense movie you've ever seen with no hope of resolution or closure. I'm not sure that I've been the same since.)

And now that I'm done with season one, I'm left with two thoughts:

1. I'm hooked. Who can I trick into giving me the second season of "Lost" on DVD?

2. I have no practical skills whatsoever. (Darn you liberal arts! I knew that you weren't a financially-prudent course of study, but I had no idea I'd be this worthless afterwards. There were times, sure, especially when I was sitting in my sociology classes, that I had fleeting thoughts about your lack of relevance to the outside world, but, like I said, this was a "fleeting" feeling, and I never knew for sure.)

Seriously, unless someone is interested in writing a constitution for our band of stranded islanders or wants someone to recount the entire saga that is "Quantum Leap: Seasons 1-5" for entertainment around the nightly campfire, I bring nothing to the table.

Let's look at who matters on "Lost":
Jack – Doctor.
Locke – Kills boars.
Sayid – Former Iraqi solider/master of terrain and weapons.
Sun – Can find plants to use as medicine.
Jin: Catches fish.
Kate – Climbs trees and handles firearms.
Sawyer – Remembered to scavenge all the stuff from dead people.
Michael – Construction background/can build a boat from bamboo and twine.

(You'll notice that neither "writer" or "barfly" made the list.)

Right off the bat, we can obviously eliminate doctoring (in addition to not going to medical school or taking science after my junior year of high school, I hate the sight of blood and needles), killing boars (yeah, that would happen), anything related to soldiering, identifying plants (if I were the kind to go camping, I'd also be the kind to use the wrong kind of leaf to wipe), fishing, firearms and construction (not even my LEGO structures were sound).

Then, I even have to take tree-climbing off the list because the last time I attempted to get more than six feet off the ground; I broke both of my wrists. And, I doubt that scavenging would work since I'd either feel bad about robbing the dead or would easily have my finds taken from me since my aforementioned previously-broken wrists don't allow me to put up much of a fight.

Because of my fair skin and light eyes, I don't even handle the sun well. In short, if I was stranded on an island and anything "Lord of the Flies"-like happened, I'd be Piggy.

Therefore, I'm ruling out any trans-oceanic travel until I at least learn how to skin a coconut.

Labels: pop culture rantings

The Invasion

Normally when I’m at the office, I do all that I can not to leave the office. It probably explains a lot of my shape, but I don’t get up from my desk all that often. Unfortunately though, this habit has next to nothing to do with my work ethic or desire "to get things done."

I avoid leaving my office because of the pesky sales people always wandering the halls. Whether they want to sell you gym memberships, comedy club tickets or coupons to save at Jersey Mike’s Subs, these persistent lurkers pepper our building. And, without the "no solicitors" sign on the office door to protect me, I am easy prey for their terrible offers. (Good at saying "no," I am not. Don’t get me started on the chiropractor package I got talked into, and I don’t even believe in chiropractors.)

But, it had been a few months since I’d run into one of these solicitors, so I decided to be bold on Friday, and I left the office to go next door for a chat.

And that’s when I walked straight in to two high school students trying to raise money for some sort of student program. Plus, since I had walked straight into them, there was no escaping the pitch.

When they asked if I wanted to give money to their program, I went with my typical non-confrontational stand-by of "I don’t have any cash on me."

"That’s OK, we take checks," the lead student said while opening the lid of the laminated box that he was carrying. In the flash that he opened the box, I saw some sort of white leopard decal and figured that I could give him a few dollars and then take the hideous animal sticker to a friend as a joke, so I agreed to make a donation.

"How much are they?" I asked, referencing the box after these kids had followed me back to my desk.

"The sun catchers? They’re twenty-five to thirty dollars," he said.

That’s when I stopped in my tracks. (I remember having a hard time getting people to pay a whole dollar for candy bars when I used to fund-raise for my elementary school, and I feel as if this price increase can’t really correspond to inflation.) I also knew that no matter how much of a people pleaser I am, I wasn’t about to shell out that kind of dough for a cat’s face made of colored plastic and wire.

"The smaller ones are only fifteen," he added, seeing my obvious hesitation, and he pushed a sun catcher with two teddy bear heads and a banner that said "best friends" towards me.

"You know," I said. "Come to think of it, I don’t really need any more stuff. I’d rather just make a donation to your organization."

Silly me thought that this was very nice. After all, they had accosted me at the office, they had no goods of value to offer, and I still didn’t know what I was actually donating money for. (I pray that it’s not the young Aryan nation, but I guess you never know with these things.) Plus, at this point, I’d wasted ten minutes of my work day. (And I wasted those ten minutes not reading perezhilton.com.)

I pulled out my purse and wrote a check for five dollars.

"There you go and good luck," I said, turning back towards my desk and computer screen.

"Thank you," the teenager said. "But, since it is a check, I am going to need to see some ID."

Needless to say, I’m never leaving my office again.

Dolphin sun catcher pictured here might or might not resemble the goods being sold by wandering high school students.