It is What it Is

Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers

Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:

5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie

So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.

Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.

They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.

It kills me. Every. Single. Time.

4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End

I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.

If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions

In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)

I hope you all had a lovely weekend!

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*

Last week, the SO and I had to make an impromptu visit to Savannah, Georgia for some family matters. Between both of our work schedules, we also knew that we'd probably get to spend less than 24 hours in town.

After the SO price-lined our hotel (one of his favorite activities), I jumped on the web link he sent me to check out the amenities we would be enjoying in the 14 hours between check-in and check-out. Of course, there was your standard pool, restaurants and fitness center, but what immediately caught my eye was the advertised proximity of Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Restaurant.

I like to think that Paula and I have a lot in common, and the short list includes a love of butter, cheese, cheese grits and deep frying.

Knowing that we were going to be cutting it close by rolling into Savannah just around 9:00 p.m., I asked the SO to call and see if we might make a reservation for the last seating. I also figured that even if they were booked, there would hopefully be a bar where we might be able to find open seats and order dinner.

The he broke the news to me: "They only take reservations for parties of 10 or me. I'm sorry."

My Beef With Robert Redford

A few weeks ago, someone mentioned a new movie with Robert Redford that was coming out.

"I don't think I'll see that. I just haven't been able to forgive him for The Way We Were," I said. "I've given it a few years, but it's still just too hard for me."

"Uh-huh," she said, giving me the "you're an odd over-sharer" eye, "well, I'm able to separate actors from the characters they portray."

"That must be nice for you," I said enthusiastically. Then, I changed the subject.

I have trouble letting things go (surprise, surprise), and I've been known to hold the occasional grudge. I try to forgive, but I don't always forget.

When you combine this little shortcoming of mine with the fact that I am the perfect audience, trouble can ensue. (The Waitress incident is only a small example.) In fact, there are two actors I can seemingly never forgive -- and not in that Tom Cruise way of "why did I waste two hours of my life on Vanilla Sky" kind of way. I can't forgive what they did on screen.

I don't hold grudges for the actual personal lives of stars - a la Tiger Woods, Jesse James and Brad Pitt -- but when it comes to the characters they play, it's a whole different story. My head may know actors and characters are two separate entities, but my heart just hasn't gotten the message. That being said, here's my problem list:

Enough Already

We all know I love me some infomercials, but perhaps what you don't know is that my favorite aspect of the infomercial is how they portray life as so hard without the product being advertised -- as if everything sold on television is the equivalent of sliced bread or the light bulb.

My first example? The Snuggie, of course. Watching this now infamous infomercial, you'd think the most difficult task in the world was holding a phone while covered in a blanket.

And we thought the wheel changed the world.

If anyone actually finds it that taxing to grab the phone while covered in a blanket, they have much bigger problems than anything a Snuggie can fix. Every time I see the Snuggie advertised, and the travails of handling a remote control or phone while covered in a blanket are extolled, I can't help but think of the Friends episode when Joey starred on the infomercial touting a product that made it easier to open milk. Because everyone has so much trouble opening milk to begin with.

If you watch the commercial for Aqua Globes, you might think that watering plants is also one of the most painful and difficult tasks on the planet. At one point, the female actress is seen struggling with a dead fern -- like the rotting plant has attacked her or tried to drag her into its water-less and angry clutches.

Is watering plants easy to forget? Sure. Is it a life or death struggle along the lines of a real-life Little Shop of Horrors? Hardly.

Romance

You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.   

That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried. 

It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.

In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.

I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.

You Need Us, You Really Do

A few months ago, I shared some thoughts on the movie The Hangover. While I completely stick by what I said then, I also don't want to give the impression that I was only dogging on women. By no means is the other gender off the hook.

I love movies like Old School, Knocked Up and The Hangover. I saw Old School twice in the theater, and both times, I laughed so hard that I was crying. To this day, listening to Kansas can always make me smile.

And one of the tried and true archetypes in these films is the girlfriend/wife who always gets in the way of fun. She nags. She's skeptical. She's forever anti-guys' weekend. And in all of these films, she's also absolutely right.

Taking The Hangover as an example, let's look at just a few of the situations the male characters get themselves into when left to their own devices (and in case you haven't figured it out yet: SPOILER ALERT):

On The Air

I've often considered that if I ever wanted to be on reality television, there isn't really a good fit for me.  (After all, doesn't temporary fame have some kind of appeal? If I could get paid to attend just one party -- a la Stephanie Pratt and Khloe Kardashian -- I could redo my entire kitchen.) Maybe there's no good fit because I'm not insane, but we'll leave that off the table for now.

I'm not an athlete or in top physical condition, so Survivor and The Amazing Race are out. I've aged out of anything on MTV. I cannot sing or dance, so goodbye American Idol. Dating is of no interest to me right now which eliminates The Bachelor, Blind Date and anything involving a millionaire, fake millionaire or getting to know one another in complete darkness. I'm not a real housewife of anywhere, and I'm unwilling to exploit my womb. (That last one might be a "for now." We'll see how this recession goes.) I also have no role in the wedding industry at the moment, which would take care of most of the programming on WE and the Style network.

(While on the subject of womb exploitation, I'd like to go ahead and nominate my two favorite tabloid stories of the year. Sure, this could be a little premature, but I'm feeling optimistic today. My runner-up for favorite tabloid story of the year is something I call, "Douche Does Yoga." Why this even made "the news" is completely beyond me. And this guy has more money than me. A crime against humanity? I think it's possible. My absolute favorite tabloid story of the year is "How I Lose 145 Pounds" courtesy of Nadya Sudelman, a.k.a. the Octomom. Yeah, I don't think dropping a litter out of one's uterus is an option for most women struggling with their weight, but thanks for the thought, Nadya.)

David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness

Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.

(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)

In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:

He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.