It is What it Is

You'll Have to Take my Word on This One

Now, I know this doesn't count as a celebrity sighting, but I swear that while I was in Florence, I saw the Gorton's fisherman.

I was in Swamper's, the hotel bar and lounge, and a local musician was on stage. The SO and his partners in crime were filming guests enjoying their drinks and fans listening to the music. I looked over towards the bar and saw an older gentleman with a short mess of gray hair and a beer in front of him. He was also wearing -- no joke -- a yellow rain jacket that ran down to his knees.

(I would have taken a picture for the sake of authenticity and verification, but I didn't think the SO would appreciate my taking photos of hotel patrons that look like popular trademarks for my own amusement while he was hard at work. I try not to embarrass him at work -- emphasis on try.)  

Of course, what really gave the icon away was the blank stare we're all so accustomed to seeing carved into wooden figurines that populate mantles all over the middle Atlantic.

I can only imagine the stock pile of fish sticks he had in his room.

A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy

When I was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabama to meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. I figured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something to him if he would take me to meet his grandparents.  

I was less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield, Alabama is part of a small conglomerate of cities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama. Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia is the birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what she couldn’t.”)  

I spent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. With the help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress that buttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate for meeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield? Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the knee and/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)  

After a two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield. We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the family room for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation, Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer in there, and we rarely have company.”

My Trip to Publix

"I'd like spicy mustard and lite mayo on the sandwich, please."

"I gotta tell you. That says lite mayo, but it isn't actually lite mayo," the lovely woman behind the deli counter told me. "It's the regular stuff. Do you still want it?"

"Oh, yeah."

"OK, but it won't be lite."

"That's fine. I'll pretend," I said. "I'm very good at lying to myself."

Most surprsingly, unlike most Publix employees I share too much with, the deli woman laughed and said that sounded good to her.

For the "Truth is Stranger Than Fiction" File

Christmas break my senior year of college, one of my friends became infatuated with the drummer of a relatively popular local band. Because of her crush, we spent most of our break from school attending the group's nightly shows.

One Wednesday, we found ourselves at a small bar/coffee house. After we had our drinks in hand, we looked for seats only to notice a pretty diverse crowd. It certainly wasn't the sea of college kids and young 20-somethings we were used to seeing at the band's shows. 

There were a lot more middle aged men in the crowd, and a lot of the women were carrying around plastic magic wands. One woman, in particular, really stood out -- she was more than a bit overweight, had A LOT of hair and wore a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. (Did I mention that this show was still during prime time television hours on a Wednesday? Not really feather boa attire time in my book.)

Pat Conroy, Writing and Family

Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)

I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.

Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."

That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.

"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."

"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)

"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."

The Southeastern Hair Expo of '96 and its Aftermath

For most of my sophomore year of high school, my hair looked just like it did in the picture to the right.

I've been known to experiment with my hair color. (I have been a red head, a Blondel  and a brunette in my time. The only color I've never dyed my hair is black. I worry that with my fair, fair complexion, I'd end up with too much of a Snow White thing going on.) But, I didn't mess with the style too much before my sophomore year. I liked a nice heavy bang with a strong curl-under on the ends. It was the mid-1990's and such a bold look was not at all uncommon. 

Then, one day, my friend Susan had a proposition for me: "Hey Laurel, how would you like to be a model in a hair show?"

Of course, it was the word "model" that hooked me. I didn't care about the context, I just wanted to be able to say that I "had modeled" at some point in my life.

"All of our hair services will be free. It'll be like getting a makeover."

As if the model part wasn't good enough, Susan offered my adolescent self her other dream -- a makeover, otherwise known as the promise of change. With that, I was done for. I sold my soul -- or, at least, my somewhat normal tresses -- for a chance to "model" in the 1996 Southeastern Hair Show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex.

Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order

As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.

Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.

When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.

My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.

Name the Kitten

I have never considered myself a cat person.

When I was eight, I asked for a kitten for my birthday and was promptly informed that my mother was allergic. (A generation before that, my mother had been informed that her mother was allergic to cats when she asked for a kitten.) I didn't think about kittens much after that. When I was 12, my sisters and I got our very own puppy, and then I really forgot about cats. 

But, about eight weeks ago, a lone, emaciated cat showed up on my porch. She was so small and so hungry that almost before I knew it, I had purchased cat food and was feeding her every day. 

And my stray cat did not come alone. She showed up pregnant. (I figured that she might be pregnant, but I didn't think she could be more than a month or so along -- most of me still hoped she was just engorged from going from near-starvation to daily feedings. She proved me wrong by birthing a litter of five on the neighbors' porch two weeks ago.)

Jazz Hands

It seems I'm just going to keep adding to the list of photos that prove I was a child of the '80s and early '90s. (The tell-tale signs in this particular pic? Perm, neon, sequins, sequined choker, jaunty hat.)

This is the photo from what would have been my third grade jazz recital. (Do people even still take jazz class? I remember thinking it was very "modern" of me. I only ever mastered step-ball-change, despite weeks of training. And I can't remember if I knew "jazz hands" before the life-changing event that was Bring it On.)

I also can't remember whether or not I liked this outfit or not. I think I dug the one-shoulder look, but I also remember being very jealous that my middle sister got to wear a big pink tutu that reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch for her part of the same recital.

Wearing this outfit was the first time someone ever whistled at me -- a sweet older man who worked at the Western Supermarket -- and I glowed because of it.

Sadly, though, I never got to perform in this amazing ensemble.

Extreme Wives

Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)

British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas. 

I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)

For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)