Bitchy About Butter

© 2007 Leighann Lord

So I'm ordering a bagel from the drive thru at Dunkin Donuts. Yes, I know. This is wrong on many levels. First: I'm ordering a bagel at Dunkin Donuts. Their bagels aren't bad, but they pale in comparison to the bagels you can get in any New York City deli. This is like buying frozen fish sticks when you can have Tuna Steak.

As if ordering second rate carbs isn't bad enough, I'm getting them at the drive through; a step above having them intravenously fed. I do try to make it better by ordering a whole wheat bagel. So maybe there's hope for me yet.

On the surface, ordering a buttered bagel sounds like a simple affair. And it would be if everyone didn't have their own butter application technique. No two people butter the same way. I prepare for this universal truth by always asking for a knife with my order. Some clerks seem reluctant to give me said utensil, as if the value of it is coming out of their check. These are the places that don't keep plastic utensils handy and I have to wait for them to liberate one from of the vault.

In some places the person who takes my order also applies the butter. Sanitary concerns aside, they take my request for a knife personally, as if I don't trust their professional judgment. I don't. That's because there are two types of butterers. The Slatherers, who pile it on with a spatula making what can only be described as a butter sandwich. My cholesterol goes up just looking at it. I use the plastic knife to remove the excess which, if saved, is enough to bake a cake.

If The Slatherer gives me too much butter, then The Economist gives too little. Efficiency experts at heart, they don’t so much spread the butter as they do skim it quickly across the surface. Today I got The Economist.

When I first opened my bagel, I thought they had neglected to butter it at all. I had to look closely, turning it to the light to see a faint greasy sheen. Gee, could they spare it? I didn't mean to cut into the war rations. The other side of the bagel was, of course, dry and bare as a bone. I couldn't resist turning to my husband and saying, "I can't believe it's not buttered."

I showed the lady at the drive thru window my half naked bagel and she said, "Oh, I'll get you some butter." At least that's what I think she said because I think I momentarily lost consciousness. While my inner diva has resigned herself to making butter alterations on the fly, she believes the initial layer of butter should be included in the cost of the bagel. I agree with her.

I'm funny like that. I also hate when I ask to get my left overs wrapped up at a restaurant and they bring a To Go box to the table for me to do it myself. When did that become my job? Do we split the tip too?

I think the drive thru lady saw the look on my face, as my inner Diva strutted to the surface to handle the situation. The fine folks at Dunkin Donuts quickly buttered the dry side of my bagel and sent me on my way. They must have taken the first guy out of the game and sent in their relief Butter Guy, because he did a great job. His butter technique was on point. Not too much, not too little.

Now I know what you're thinking. How can I be so bitchy about butter? But it's not about butter, my friends. It's about making a stand for good service and a correctly buttered bagel is my line in the sand. If I let the butter slide can civilization be far behind? There comes a time to stand and fight. If not now, then when? If not this, then what? If not here, then where? No butter, No peace!

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The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Muggles

© 2007 Leighann Lord

I've been a licensed driver for many years which means I have my fair share of Department of Motor Vehicle horror stories. It's been a while since I've read "Dante's Inferno," but I'm pretty sure there was some reference to the DMV as one of the nine circles of hell.

So when I had to go and re-register my car this week I had a plan. The night before I lit a candle, meditated and studied the relevant biblical passages on the value of patience. I packed my handbag with extra tissues, pain reliever, bottled water and power bars. I laid out my clothes from the night before, set my alarm and went to bed early.

The next morning I arrived at the DMV fully expecting to circle, wait and perhaps even fight for a parking space. Wonder of wonders, I found one right in front of the building; time still on the meter. I went in, all necessary paper work in hand and got my number. I took a seat and settled in to play the waiting game.

Now earlier this Summer I rushed out with all the other muggles and bought the seventh and final Harry Potter book. In an amazing show of self restraint I didn't read it. I decided instead to re-read the first six books to get myself up to speed on all the goings on at Hogwarts. I'm up to book four, "Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire" which I brought with me to the DMV. I was looking forward to enjoying a few hours of leisure reading. "Order of the Phoenix" here I come.

I was shocked when my number was called before I was even a good chapter in. There must be some mistake. I looked at my number. I looked up at the digital display board. Indeed number F130 was up there and instructing me to go window number 10, which just happened to be right in front of me.

I hurriedly gathered up my things and stepped over to the window. The clerk courteously took my paper work. I handed over my check. She gave me my new registration and said, "Have a nice day." I was sitting in my car less than 30 minutes later, with time left on the meter. I was deeply troubled and suspicious.

It felt like that episode of "The Twilight Zone" where a man (Jack Klugman) goes to heaven and it’s wonderful. Everything goes his way, all the time. He wins every pool and poker game. The women are gorgeous and only have eyes for him. He gets the best table at his favorite restaurant and the food is fabulous. But after while, it gets a little old. Finally he says to an angel, "This isn’t right. Everything is too perfect. I don’t deserve this. I don’t belong in heaven. I want to go to the other place." And the Angel said, "This is the other place." Meaning of course, the Department of Motor Vehicles.

I know I should be grateful but I wonder if things would have gone so smoothly had I not been uberly prepared. Would I be sitting in the DMV for hours with nothing to do, if I had brought nothing to do? I’d probably still be circling for parking.

And so with my car re-registered in record time I’m no closer to beginning "Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows." I guess I’ll have to make an emergency appointment with my doctor.

The Black Comic Perspective? I'm Not Qualified

Leighann Lord © 2007

Mr. Elon James White has kindly asked me to write a blog for The Black Comedy Project about my experience in the business as a Black comic. While I'm very flattered by his request I'm not entirely sure I'm qualified to share my thoughts on the subject. Yes I'm Black, I'm a comic, and I've been in the business for a while, but it's not that simple. It never is.

I started my career with the absurdly naive notion that I just wanted to be a comic; not a Black comic, but a funny comic. I wanted to be myself with all the complexities that implies. Why only tell jokes from just one facet of my experience when I'm blessed with so many? We all are. There's color, culture, ethnicity, nationality, religion, gender, sexual orientation, marital status, education, political stance, mental and physical health, height, weight, favorite color. Is any one these influences more important, valid or defining than the other? I guess it depends on who you talk to.

A club owner/manager/booker once said to me, "Leighann you're very funny, but can you be a little bit more black?" He wasn't suggesting I get a tan. He was telling me he'd be more comfortable with his stereotypical image of who a black person should be, rather than who I really am. I don't know what image of blackness he had in mind. Perhaps I should have asked him to give me an example. It would have been interesting to see what influences shaped his expert opinion. Did he watch music videos? Take a black literature or history class in college? Perhaps some of his best friends were Black.

I wonder how many Jewish comics he suggested be more Jewish, or if he told male comics to be more masculine.
To sweeten the pot, this happened at a comedy club in New York City: The capital of the world; the cross roads of culture where diversity is embraced, celebrated and encouraged. As you can see I have a healthy fantasy life. I dream. That's what artists do. I know we're not there yet as a species, but I hope someday we can be. Perhaps when science is finally able to unlock the 90% of our brains that we're clearly not using.

I thought one of the goals of the civil rights movement was for African Americans to be seen as human beings. I don't see how playing to a stereotype serves that end. That's a game I'm not sure you can win. I call it the "How Black are You?" game. It puts Blackness on a quantifiable scale and how you rate depends on which faction you’re trying to appease, be it the ever vigilant "Soul Patrol" or pale pop culture enthusiasts who fancy themselves on the cutting edge of cool. They judge you on how well you "keep it real," whatever that is. In this context it is subtly implied that being "Cosby Show Black" is somehow less authentic than being "Good Times Black." I can not be both urban and urbane. One is a betrayal of the other.

Some would say I have been naive and foolish. Being yourself is a sweet ideal, but if I had any true business sense at all I’d see that stereotypes sell. Why not simply embrace my Blackness for creative expediency and financial gain? I don’t know. Sex sells too, but I have been equally reluctant to stroll the boulevard. I don’t wear my culture on my sleeve. Color really is only skin deep. These things are an important part of who I am as a person and as an artist, but again they’re not the only part.

So I’m not sure I rate high enough on the Barometer of Blackness to write this blog, but for Elon, I’ll try. Because as my experience with the club owner clearly demonstrates, while I see myself as a multifaceted human being, many do not or can not. Some of these folks work in the industry. This makes my job and how I choose to do it even more important. Every time I get on stage and inspire an audience to see past the obvious, and laugh, I win. If all you see at the end of my show is the color of my skin, then I haven't done my job right. Kumbya. Power to the people.

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Angel of Death? Please Hold

I have some older folks in my family who refuse to use voice mail. My mom has it on her cell phone don’t bother leaving her a message. She’s not checking it. I’ve shown her how, but just having a mobile is as far as she is willing to go on the tech front. This is a woman who doesn't have e-mail or an ATM card, and doesn’t want them. How she survives without the modern convenience of computer viruses and ATM fees is beyond me.

Older folks seem equally unenthusiastic about text messaging. For them the opposable thumb is merely a symbol of human superiority; a reminder of why we - for good or ill – are the species in charge. Historically, the thumb has gotten a bit of a work out from hitchhikers and Fonzi fans, but hither to the fingers that did the most work were the index and middle.

Who foresaw the rise of texting and the active role the thumb would play? The muscles and fine motor skills of older thumbs are not always up to the task of texting. They require a full size qwerty keyboard to express their thoughts. And most can still proudly do so at 80 to 100 full, correctly spelled words a minute; sans cute abbreviations, a la LOL.

Fresh in my memory is The Great Text Messaging Debacle of 2005. I won’t go into it, but suffice it to say: if someone (who shall remain nameless, but we’ll call her, "Mom") is unfamiliar with text messaging, explain it to them first so the messages and sounds don’t surprise them and make them think their phone is broken or, god forbid, "possessed."

I have a few aunts and uncles who are truly old school. They don't have cell phones, voice mail or answering machines. If they're home they answer the phone. If they're not, they don't. And I love how they answer. They are the generation that still actively practices telephone etiquette. They don't pick up with, "Yo!" "Wuzzzup!" "Speak!" "Who dis?" "Where you at?" They are so polite and formal I sometimes think I’ve mis-dialed and reached a business.

Lately when I call I hear worry and hesitation in their voices as if they are finally beginning to regret not having an answering machine to screen their calls. I hope hearing the voice of their favorite niece, god daughter or cousin will dispel their disquiet, but it doesn’t. Why would they be worried about talking to me? I’m not calling to borrow money.

The problem is I’m just a special occasion caller. And since I call so infrequently, they assume that when I do it’s going to be bad news. They expect the worst. They expect death. When I called one of my Uncles to invite him my birthday dinner. We were barely through the pleasantries when he said, "Is everything okay?" Sub text: "Who died?"

"Yes, everything's fine," I said. Sub text: "Nobody."

He went on to say, in his ever so poetic way, "At my age, I never know when someone is calling to invite me to sing 'Nearer My God to Thee.'" Well if that doesn’t make me feel like the angel of death, I don’t know what does.

Mike Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, is considering a plan that would send text messages to the citizens of Gotham in case of an emergency. It could say: "OMG! BFD! Get your BFF, leave NYC, PDQ! GL, Have a GR8 day!"

Translation: "Oh my, God! Big freakin’ deal! Get your best friend forever, leave New York City, pretty damn quick! Good luck, Have a great day."

Is this "Logan’s Run" for the new millennium? Text messaging ensures that the Razor, Sidekick and Black Berry crowd will survive the next calamity, but the older people are on their own. They’ll be standing around wondering why they’re cell phones are flashing and beeping. The ones with answering machines will be screening their calls. Those with neither modern convenience -- what's left of The Great Generation -- will have to resort to the classic duck and cover. GL.

My Milkshake Brings My Dog To The Car

We have a tradition in our family. After a visit to the Veterinarian, which is very traumatic for our eight year old cocker spaniel, Rolie, (he trembles pathetically and looks at us with big, sad eyes as if to say, "Please don't leave me here. These people are animals.") we buy him a milkshake. Now the dog doesn't get a whole milkshake. We’re not that indulgent. We share. Apparently a Vet visit is traumatic for all of us. And nothing soothes the nerves like a vanilla shake.

We discovered his love of milkshakes early on. One hot Summer day my husband and I picked up a couple to cool us down. Previously lounging in the back seat, Rolie became suddenly alert and excited, as if waiting patiently for his turn at the straw. Intrigued I held my empty cup out to him and he ever so gently took it from my hand and licked it clean. Note to self, the dog likes milkshakes.

Rolie also loves car rides, except when they end up at the Vet. The other day when my husband was dropping me off at the train station, Rolie decided he wanted to come along. By decided I mean when we let him out to run around in the yard a bit before we left, we had a difficult time getting him back in the house. We called. He wouldn't come. We’d get near him and he stealthily evaded capture. He doesn't normally act like this. (Oh God, I sound like one of those parents who's in denial about their child's aberrant behavior. This doesn't bode well if we ever have to raise a human child.)

I was running late so rather than continue the struggle we took Rolie with us, which I’m sure was his plan all along. That's right. Two adults caved in to a manipulative cocker spaniel. But it's not just any cocker spaniel, it's Rolie. And what Rolie wants, Rolie gets.

The problem is that His Lordship is absolutely adorable. Shiny black coat, soulful eyes, cute nub of a tail. I'm also a sucker for a sad story. His previous "family" abandoned him. We adopted The Old Man (he's eight, with a distinguished ring of grey around his muzzle) since his foster family could not keep him. He survived kennel cough, two ear surgeries that have rendered him partially deaf and he takes medication every other day for his thyroid.

Thinking about what he's been through makes us feel sorry for him and perhaps be a little more lenient than we should. Yup, old fur face has got us tightly wrapped around his well groomed paw. At this rate a kid would walk all over us and make us beg for more.

When my husband returned home from the train station, his route took him past McDonald's, our milkshake purveyor of choice. As the car sped by, Rolie sounded the alarm from the back seat. Our normally quiet and contemplative Spaniel began barking while gazing fixedly at the golden arches as if to say, "Here! Turn here! This is the milkshake place!"

My husband was shocked. We knew His Lordship was smart, but this was creepy; like something straight out of a commercial. "So," I said, "How did Rolie enjoy his milkshake?" "I didn't get him one," my husband said. "What?" I couldn't believe it. "Who are you?" I said. "And what have you done with my husband?"

Part of me was annoyed that Rolie was smart enough in his own way to ask for a milkshake and my husband didn't come across with the goods. A slightly bigger part of me was proud of him for resisting the urge. "It would have set a bad precedent," he said. "Rolie would think it was milkshake time whenever we passed a McDonald's."

Yes, that would be bad. And potentially expensive. It’s already hard to believe that we thought having a dog would be cheaper than a kid. It hasn’t been working out that way. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we had a backbone between us. But who knows perhaps one milkshake denied in the furry face of adorable brilliance means there’s hope. But to be honest, I’m a little worried about even writing this, since the evidence suggests that Rolie can read.

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Judge Not, I'll Try (No I Won't)

The Bible says, "Judge not, lest ye be judged" but that's not enough of a deterrent. Judging other peoples lives and choices is fun, free and entertaining. You just have to pay for the popcorn.

To compound my sin I love watching "Judge Judy." She judges the legal merits of each case. We the viewers judge the litigants. With practice you can even predict the outcome of a case by the outfit they’re wearing. Being sued on national television may not call for a tie and tails, but I think a sweat suit is a tad too casual for court.

The best part of TV judge shows is the post verdict wrap up. This is where the litigants get to speak up for themselves; sounding off about the judge's decision, their opponent and offering sage advice to the viewer. Occasionally there are thoughtful and coherent remarks but for the most part it’s a rapid exchange of insults spewed in a desperate attempt to get in the last word. American entertainment at its finest. Pass the popcorn.

Sadly, the majority of cases are disgruntled couples. They’ve shacked up, procreated, co-mingled finances and when it doesn’t work out, they run to court. The law provides some remedy for marrieds, but even so it can’t fix bad choices or a broken heart. You cannot litigate love. That’s what makes these cases so compelling, yet difficult to watch. We’ve all been there.

A recent case featured a young couple who began their relationship when She was 16 and He was 19. We’re talking statutory rape for those of you inclined to quibble over such trivial legalities. Four years and two kids later they were broken up. Surprising, I know. She was suing him for the return of Her clothes. She and the kids had quickly moved out when She could no longer put up with His controlling nature.

Ah, the impetuousness of youth. The Grown Woman’s Guide to Relationships clearly states, if you’re gonna leave – and deep down you always know – you’ve got to plan ahead. Take everything you have a right to because there’s no going back.

He was counter suing for the return of his dignity.

Their case was pretty straight forward, but as expected the post verdict comments were enlightening.

She said: "He has tons of guns. He'd pull ‘em and threaten to shoot me."

Funny, that never came up in court. She said He was controlling, not crazy. If I were trying to build a case against my ex to get my stuff back I think I'd open with the gun.

He said, "I never threatened to kill her with no gun."

Eerily implying that he had threatened to kill her, just not with a gun. A rifle perhaps? Strangulation? Arsenic?

She said, "If I would do my hair and makeup, I was trying to sleep with
everybody. I told him I wasn't but he didn't believe me."

Of course he didn’t. He couldn’t hear through the deafening sound of his own insecurity.

He said, "She'd never wore makeup before, ever, in her life. And then she wore
it to go bartend at a party, what's that telling you?"

That tempting though it may be, not every woman wants to sashay about town in a house coat and curlers? That’s the trouble with young love. It doesn’t realize that people grow and change. Hell, older people don’t handle it all that well either.

When I was 16 I didn't wear makeup. A little Vaseline mixed with Kool Aid was all the lip stick I needed. A few years later I could tell you every color in the Wet & Wild lipstick line as if I’d mixed in the lab myself. In essence, a funny thing happened between 16 and now. I grew up. That’s what children do.

Did He really think that She would stay 16 and naive forever? Two babies before 21 pretty much put the kibosh on that. You’d think he’d be so busy raising the two kids he already had, that he wouldn’t have time to treat his girlfriend like one. And they say men don’t multitask.

But it’s a catch 22. If she had acquiesced to his wishes by not doing her hair, makeup – oh hell, why even bother bathing – in time he might have left her because she was such a mess. No man wants to be seen with a hag on his arm; especially not a young one. Then we might have seen Him on a talk show telling the world that He doesn’t understand how such a beautiful girl could let herself go; and how He’d love to see Her get a make over.

It makes me wonder if the most famous of young lovers – Romeo and Juliet – had actually hooked up, how their relationship would have faired. Would we see them on "Divorce Court" getting a stern talking to from Judge Toler? Would she urge them to put aside their differences and focus on the needs of their children? Or would Juliet be crying her eyes out on "Maury Povich" as a vindicated Romeo pumps his fist in the air yelling, "I knew they weren’t mine!" The obligatory back drop screen featuring two adorable children who look curiously like Mercucio.

As the bard so correctly said, "The course of true love never did run smooth."

Dammit, I’m all out of popcorn.

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