It is What it Is

Acts Of God And Nature

Not to go all Patch Adams on everyone, but I really do feel like laughter can be the best medicine (along with antibiotics and all the traditional Western stuff that is). I think we should look for laughter – and joy – whenever we can because life can be pretty darn hard.

However, there are also plenty of times when laughter doesn’t seem appropriate. Or when there doesn’t seem like there’s much to laugh about. For the past few months, I often haven’t felt like laughing, but that’s another story for another day, when I’m ready to tell it.

More immediately, today is not a day that I feel like I can share anecdotes or talk about my annoyances from trips to the pharmacy, talking on the phone or attempting to fit in the clothes at Forever 21 (because at 31, I still believe I can be Forever 21).

Handling Telemarketers

In the last few days, my cell phone has become telemarketer central.

I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but I think it has something to do with a pre-caffeine, I-know-it’s-too-good-to-be-true-but-I’m-feeling-overly-optimistic-today visit to a site that promised free iPads. My punishment for this lack of good judgment? Counting down the 31 days until I can start filing complaints with the Do Not Call Registry.

Fortunately, I treat my phone like I treat the front door – if I don’t know you, and I’m not expecting you, I don’t answer. Unfortunately, because ringing phones drive me mildly insane no matter where they are, I’d still put this in the “nuisance” category.

(One of these repeat callers is not a telemarketer, but rather the mail-order drug company I “have the privilege” of using under my new health insurance. Note to my health care company: It’s not a privilege if I don’t want to use the service but have to if I don’t want to pay the full-price of my medications. I really wish more people would check the dictionary before speaking. This information is not relevant, but it bugs me, so it gets included.)

Tired of the ever-ringing phone, I finally decided to answer one of these unidentified calls. My usual M.O. for telemarketers goes something like this:

My Beef Of The Week

First of all, let me say that I like babies. I like them a lot in fact. I like pregnant people. I have no issues there. I love my pregnant friends and their babies. I love strangers that are pregnant and their babies. Little people are cute.

However, what I do not like is a certain big box baby story that has taken the name of a lovely musical and turned it into a play on words celebrating capitalism and conspicuous consumption. (Yes, Buy Buy Baby, I’m looking at you. I won’t say that you’re a lot of what’s wrong with America because that would obviously be a bit extreme, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it occasionally.)

This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of going to Buy Buy Baby. Clearly, my first mistake was going on a Saturday. I work from home, I have other opportunities to shop and I should have known better. I will take responsibility for throwing myself in with the stroller stampede at such an inopportune time.

Inside, I walked straight to the registry desk and gave the lovely woman behind the counter my friend’s name. Now, while she’s pulling up my friend’s registry, I can clearly see a line, three-deep of gift bags behind her. Are these gift bags for anyone using the registry service? Of course not. These gift bags are for registering pregnant ladies. What I’m about to say will probably sound selfish and I like I need to feel special all the time, but well, I can fall into that category, so I’m just going to own it. Pregnant women come in to Buy Buy Baby to scan gifts they want and leave, and they get the free stuff? I come in here to print out a piece of paper that will tell me what to spend money on, and I get nothing? I think there’s a flaw in the system. Why can’t we all have gift bags for being in the store? Hell, I’d even settle for a sticker. Did no one hear read about reciprocity in Psych 101? You have no idea the unnecessary shopping I’ve done for a logo-embossed stress ball or ruler.

As the registry attendant hands me my print out, she says, “When you check out, don’t forget to give the cashier your registry so you can enjoy the free gift wrap service.”

The End Of An Era And A Day of Mourning

All My Children and One Life to Live were cancelled yesterday. (AMC and OLTL for those of use in the Soap Opera Digest know.) While this may not seem like a big deal to some, it’s the end of a very special era for me, and dare I say it, America.

I have never hidden my love of soap operas. Without them, I probably wouldn’t be the slightly dramatic, prone-to-hyperbole gal that I am today. My secret wish in life has always been to be a soap actress (preferably playing my own evil twin as well). I believe soap operas taught me as much about dialogue as any other writing. If you think about it, that’s all that really happens on a soap anyway.

I may not have watched a soap in years (I got too old for the drama. Once my couple is together, I want them to stay together), but that doesn’t mean my love for the characters or the genre is at all diminished.

Perhaps more important than my personal loss is what this means for television. Is this just another nail in the coffin of scripted television? Will our children grow up on reruns of Nancy Grace, Judge Judy and Jersey Shore? Will Maury’s paternity tests go on indefinitely? Will Cheaters be the default for tired moms folding laundry throughout the day?

R-Rated Souvenirs

I’m not always up to date on the latest lingo and certain slang terms. If you text me any short hand other than LOL or OMG, I’m completely lost. I have recently added IDK (I don’t know) and IRL (in real life) to my vocabulary, but for the longest time I thought an IDK just meant someone had probably been drinking and was having trouble spelling.

Despite my wide range of friends, sub-sets of society with their own terms also tend to be beyond me. (It took me two years, and extensive questioning, to grasp “emo.”)

When I was living in Chicago for the summer, I lived a few blocks north of Wrigley Field and not far from Boystown, a well-known area for gay men. (According to Wikipedia, it was the first recognized gay village in the United States. I’ve learned something new today.) One day, there was a street fair in Boystown, and a friend and I were off to enjoy the festivities. The primary highlight of the day had been a Menudo/Spice Girls style group singing in matching white outfits with different colored sash belts (to represent all the colors of the gay rainbow) until I spotted a carnival game.

A couple of men were standing next to rows of plastic pigs. For a dollar, you could purchase rings to toss around the pigs, and if you rung one, you could choose between some prizes. Condoms were free just for participating, but what I really wanted was this adorable little pig keychain. The booth was sponsored by Steamworks, which I assumed was some kind of gym.

“Can I please borrow a couple of dollars?” I begged of my friend since I never carry cash.

The Birds And The Bees

No one ever had the sex talk with me.

My mother once asked, while I was locked in the car (her preferred means of trapping me for uncomfortable conversations), clearly embarrassed herself, “Do you have any questions about sex?”

I, equally embarrassed and after a long pause, said, “Yes.”

“Do you have specific questions?”

I shook my head “no.” I was not prepared for this, although I did have a bad feeling when the lock dropped on the passenger seat door for our impromptu “fun trip to the mall.”

“Do you think you’d like a book or something?”

I nodded.

From The Way Back Machine: Laurel As Marketing Guru

From my days on the Lipstick magazine blog, circa 2008. (Although, in my new incarnation as media guru, I would like to add for my clients that I understand -- and love -- e-blasts and viral videos, but I remain ambivalent about mass text alerts.):

I will be the first to confess that I am no marketing guru.

I have an OK head for business — supply and demand, profit margin, yada, yada. But I could care less about packaging, price points, focus groups and all the rest of it. (My brilliant slogans for Lipstick — "Read Lipstick magazine!" "Lipstick is a good magazine!" — were met with blank stares, and probable questioning of whether or not I was a good hire on the fourth floor.) I like what I like, and I tend to assume that other people will like what I like, too. Self-involved? Yes, but it's gotten me this far — 8' X 4' cubicle and all the printer paper a girl could want — so why ask questions now.

The Things I Think But Do Not Tweet

No offense, but it seems like psychic Alison Dubois really should have called Camille Grammer's divorce at some point on Real Housewives.

Why don't I tweet it? Because after that particular episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I'm kind of terrified of Alison Dubois. (I'm really glad I've already enjoyed my years of Medium viewing.) Seriously, I'm afraid. She brags about knowing when people are going to die?!?! This is no good for someone with an anxiety disorder and people-pleasing issues. I really hope she doesn't get into the double-digit pages of Googling herself.

And I know we all miss things, but just from context, Kelsey had already run off to New York for two months without his wife. It seems like this one could have taken more "educated guess" than "psychic prediction."