I Dream of Gilmores
by Rachel Hamburg
While my mother was pregnant, she had a near-constant craving for macaroni and cheese. She would devour bowl after bowl of cheesy goodness, her growing belly never tiring of its rich, homey flavor. Day and night she would order anyone in earshot to whip her up some mac and cheese. Once she shoved my dad out of bed at 3 a.m. to go boil water in his boxers. Another time, when she discovered that we were out of cheddar, she knocked on every neighbor’s door until she reached Ms. Schwarzstein at the end of the block who could supply her with an ample amount of the extra sharp variety. To say the least, she was obsessed.
Predisposed to obsession as I was, it is unfortunate that my parents did not invest in any infant psychotherapy. But this was the 80’s, and Americans were far too enamored by cone bras and Hammer pants to consider the repercussions of a few tubs of macaroni and cheese.
It wasn’t long before my inevitable obsession with obsessions danced onto the stage and became blinklessly evident to everyone in the tri-county area. When I was still amused by my own saliva, my parents, probably in an act of sleepless desperation and definitely overwhelmed by my passion for all things sharp, electric, or poisonous, introduced me to what would become the source of many years of blissful obsession. My dear television.
First it was Skip to My Lou, the sort of kid flick that makes parents either turn to the bottle (of Ritalin) or invest in one of those “Kill Your Television” bumper stickers and move to an organic commune in Marin. I would skip to my own lou around the living room for hours upon days on end, watching and rewatching the cheesy kid tape that involved a lot of nauseating smiles and nerdy little kids with mean jump roping skills. Official records of my skipping marathons were destroyed in the Great Parental Memory Loss Fiasco of the last decade, however, experts guesstimate that the Skip to My Lou video received a good 2,000 hours of play time in the Hamburg household that year.
Before my parents could say “maybe it’s time to lock Rachel in her room indefinitely,” I fell in love with a certain purple dinosaur who needs no introduction (unless of course this memoir is being read by anthropologists of the future, in which case I may as well break the news to you that humans and dinosaurs once were a happy family and lots of great big hugs were involved). When I missed an episode (God forbid!) I would cry myself to sleep, holding my Barney stuffed animal under one stubby arm, and my Baby Bop under the other, and wiping my runny little nose on the corner of my Barney-themed sheets. I used to wave vigorously at the television throughout the episodes, utterly perplexed as to why Barney never responded. I was even a member of the official Barney fan club.
I used to wish with all of my teeny-weeny tike might that my life would mirror the “the kid’s always right and never should get in big trouble because they meant well” plotline that was at the foundation of every show that I watched between the ages of fetus and nine. I wanted to be able to act out and have my daddy hug me and tell me how great I was like Bob Saget used to in Full House instead of giving me the customary boot into a “timeout.” For some reason, however, kicking my dad in the shins and telling him to “burn in hell” never seemed to put me on a pedestal.
But nothing will ever compare to the obsession that crept upon me one seemingly innocuous Tuesday night. In the seventh grade I was hampered down by the latest Bar Mitzvah dance drama and so-and-so’s fight with whomever at lunch on Thursday, not to mention my fears of contracting any disease that someone within a 4,000 mile radius had contracted within the last 13 years. As a result, not only did I become utterly obsessed, but I decided to take a vacation from reality.
Let me introduce you to my friends The Gilmore girls. They’re funny, they’re cute, and their lives are a perfect fairytale for a happily ever after kid like me. And as the WB network put it in their ads: “they could be sisters, except for that whole mother-daughter thing.”
There was something seductive about the chemistry between Mama Lorelai, who got knocked up at 16, and baby Lorelai (who she names after herself because, as Lorelai longwindedly explains early on, while she was giving birth she was thinking about how men name their sons after themselves all the time and, to make a long story a little shorter, her inner feminist got the best of her). To simplify mommy’s labor-induced narcissism, little Lorelai goes by Rory. The two are best friends first, and mother and daughter second, and its all fun and games unless it’s not, in which case all is fair in love and war with this cast of characters. And they live in this quirky little town of Stars Hollow where they have neighbors that think they still live in the Jazz Age and a favorite little diner and a whole freak show worth of wacky friends who either add comic relief or just plain make you want to whack them over the head with a frying pan. And they have a constant trail of boys vying to be a part of their Gilmore goodness. And everyone loves them except for Lorelai’s uber-high society parents who were royally embarrassed in front of all of their stuck up, botoxed friends when instead of their daughter coming out as a debutante at 16, a baby came out of her. They’re not too keen on Lorelai (who’s not exactly trying to cozy up in mommy and daddy’s bed either), but they really like Rory the angelic, Ivy-geared daughter they never had.
And like the citizens of Stars Hollow, for me, it was love at first sight.
But it wasn’t just the TV characters that became the objects of my obsession; I gravitated to the show’s stars as well. Lauren and Alexis, with whom I am of course on a first name basis, played mama and daughter Gilmore respectively. And much to my criminal record and their personal security’s dismay, in a matter of weeks I went from innocent teenybopper to near-psycho stalker extraordinaire. I learned everything that there was to know about Lauren and Alexis, scouring every source short of their FBI records. I know that Lauren was born in Hawaii on March 16, 1967 and that she wanted to be a horse jockey but she got too tall. I know that Alexis’s first language was Spanish and that she was so shy as a child that her parents stuck her in a play to make her talk. I celebrated their birthdays each year, which were a much bigger deal to me than my own.
I may still have been considered mentally stable had I only bothered memorizing the biographies and tracking appearances of the show’s stars, however the TV gods had something more exotic, and by that I mean bizarre, in store for me. I began to literally worship Amy Sherman Palladino, in my mind the creator of life, but in real world standards only the creator and writer of Gilmore girls. But I guess at that point in my life life and Gilmore girls were pretty much synonymous, as inseparable as Sonny and Cher in the “I Got You Babe” days. Unlike Lauren and Alexis, who could have been convicted of armed robbery and still received my undying support, Amy got the brunt of the good, the bad, and the ugly when it came to my Gilmore emotions. She called the shots, and when they didn’t hit a bull’s-eye in my book, Amy was to blame. When Rory and Dean broke up, my seething, broken heart yearned to call up Ms. Palladino and give her a piece of my mind by way of a steam roller or tractor devouring her incompetence. But as if she were a puppy, I could never stay angry for long, and when Max proposed to Lorelai with 1,000 yellow daisies, my heart melted faster than snow in the Sahara.
My life, and the lives of those around me, completely changed because of Amy and my girls. Gone were the days when I would utter words between the hours of 8 and 9 (7 central) on a Tuesday night. Gone were the days when I would get through a dinner conversation without comparing someone at the table to one of my favorite fictional characters. And as the adequately medicated and therapized part of myself can attest, gone were the days when anyone believed even for a moment that I was sane.
I forgot what color coated my bedroom walls because from floor to ceiling they were covered with magazine pictures and newspaper cutouts of my favorite TV stars. When I would surf my usual Gilmore fan sites late at night and come upon a new magazine release, within minutes my dad and I would be in line at Safeway with not one, but two copies of the magazine in hand. In addition to investing in Seventeens and Us Weeklys, I would spend hours each day bartering for new Gilmore merchandise on ebay. I can recall a certain heated auction for a bus station sized poster of Lauren and Alexis; some loser from Kansas had beat me out for the last coveted poster and I wasn’t going to let that poo face steal from me again. It’s probably a very good thing that this wasn’t one of those old fashioned auctions where actual human contact was involved because I’m not sure if that kansaschick22 would have had much of a face, let alone blood supply, had we been in the same room. I got the poster, and over the years I bid my way to videotapes, magazine clips, episode-worn clothing, and way too much more. I probably could have financed a small nation with the amount of money that I put down on Gilmore goodies.
While my life completely revolved around the Gilmore girls 24 hours a day, nothing quite compared to the surge of passion that accompanied watching a new episode. Every Tuesday night, my mom and dad would file into my room at 7:58 p.m. to see what Amy would have in store for us. There was usually a lot of frantic yelling on my part to ensure that everything was just so for my optimum viewing pleasure. In addition to watching the show, I would tape each episode, edit out the commercials, and line it up (labeled with episode title and number) next to its predecessors on my Gilmore shelf. One of my all time favorite episodes, “Love, Daisies, and Troubadours,” I have watched over 100 times. I no longer have a need to watch it, as I can recite the entire episode by heart, lyrics to the background music included.
At the height of my obsession with Gilmore girls, life was simply easier, and I think that is what I loved about it. The biggest thing I had to worry about was whether Rory and Dean would get back together (which, don’t get me wrong, was a BIG deal). They say teenagers think about sex approximately once every four minutes or so, but had the smart science people studied me I would have thrown them off; the Gilmore clan monopolized my mind.
I created an entire world for myself in which the actual 43 minutes of television show per week were only a small part. My life revolved around daydreaming up new plotlines, celebrity sightings of the show’s stars, and collecting anything that cost less than my last Hanukah check from grandma.
My over-the-top antics were in large part encouraged by the people around me. There was something so pure and refreshing about the euphoria that would seamlessly overcome me when discussing my dear Gilmores; my passion for the show was inevitably contagious, and everyone from my parents to my Latin teacher enjoyed fueling the burning fire within me.
It was my Hollywoodite cousins that doused me with stalker gasoline and flicked a match onto my obsession. Producers by trade, my cousins were well practiced in the art of getting near strangers to do things for them. With stories about showing Renee Zellweger where the bathroom was at Reese Witherspoon’s New Year’s bash and wining and dining at the Playboy mansion, in my mind my cousins were almost the equivalent of celeb royalty themselves. Upon hearing that I would be paying them a visit in early August of 2002, my cousins decided to give me the pants wetting surprise of a lifetime.
I will never forget turning the corner in our all access golf cart on the Warner Bros lot to suddenly find myself transported to Stars Hollow, Gilmore territory. There were the storefronts and landmarks that Lorelai and Rory had skipped by so many millions of times. I saw the gas pump where Rory and Jess met in one of my all time favorite Gilmore love scenes. As we continued through “E.R.ville,” “West Wing town,” and the like, my mind was solely focused on the fact that I had just driven past Luke’s Diner and Miss Patty’s Dance Studio. I thought I was going to vomit with excitement (I tend to do that for some reason).
It’s a good thing that I kept my lunch down, because my WB journey was far from over. Next stop: Studio 19, Lorelai Gilmore’s Independence Inn. Oh. My. God. (Can someone please pass the Pepto Bismol?)
It is one of those memories that I will never ever forget, yet at the same time I can only recall in pieces. Much of my visit is a complete blur, as if everything was happening under water. (Blub, blub.)
“Do you know where we are?” my cousin jokingly prodded.
“It’s the Independence Inn,” I exulted, barely able to breath. (For this reason I was thankful that my dad was trained in CPR).
We meandered through the set, with me pausing at every chair, couch, and foot of floor space to touch the cushion or wood paneling where traces of Lauren Graham’s DNA could potentially be residing. Upon exiting the inn, we proceeded to an area where a group of important looking people was effectively ignoring us. Ohmygod this set was hot (and not just because I was sweating like Andre Agassi in his sixth match at the U.S. Open.) Hot like they were filming a scene. Hot like do people ever die from excitement because, if not, I may be the first.
I glued myself to my dad and my cousins. Four feet away from heaven someone pulled my plug and like a robot out of batteries, I crumbled into a pile of scrap metal. It certainly didn’t help my suddenly apparent lack of self-esteem or oxygen that my cousins were laughing at me. Used to working with far bigger stars than those of the Gilmore girls, my cousins didn’t understand the true magnitude of my star-strickenitis.
“Rachel, look up. Lauren is right there.” And sure enough, lifting my gaze from the studio floor I found the pattern of my wallpaper and the fixture of my wildest daydreams standing within reach, obliviously text-messaging away. “Go talk to her.”
Impossible, sorry, no way, can’t. Uh-uh, nope, nope, nope. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to talk to her, it was just…bljiroe jfoeapjil jfeiop. I think I forgot how to speak; A Neanderthal could have conducted a more intelligent conversation than me at that point.
Had I been alone, I have no doubt that I would have turned around, started running, and looked back only to see what color shoes Lauren Graham was wearing. And then I would have regretted it the rest of my life, probably taking it out on my children, and then when they were grown and gone, on the neighborhood kids by screaming and not showering and swearing off TV except for Dr. Phil and Oprah (who could hate Oprah?). So it’s a good thing that my cousins were there to literally shove me into Lauren Graham and initiate the talking for me.
“Lauren, Hi. This is Rachel, she’s a very big fan.”
I looked like the petrified frog my sister found in Hawaii a few summers back.
Lauren smiled at me and rubbed my arm, obviously taken aback by the fact that I appeared comatose. “Well we’re about to shoot this scene, want to come watch?” I’m assuming that I did something that was construed as “yes,” because I soon found myself perched in the doorway of the Independence Inn kitchen, watching the filming of a pivotal scene that actually broke the cliffhanger from last season’s finale. Now not only was I freaking out because all of my wildest dreams had come true in the last half hour, but also because Lorelai had said yes to Max’s proposal, which ohmygod I had been agonizing over since the previous May 10th to be exact.
Upon the completion of the scene, Ms. Graham beelined directly back to me, and while chomping on a carrot, struck up a conversation. “You know when I was your age, I was obsessed with Shaun Cassidy. I totally know what you’re going through.”
Apparently while watching the filming I had transitioned from petrified to blubbering idiot. “I can’t believe you said yes to Max! My dad and I have been betting on that for months! I love you! Omygod you are the greatest and my favorite actress and it was my dream to meet you and and and,” I was out of breath and out of my mind, flailing and blind as I plunged deeper into embarrassment. We strolled over to where Amy (!) was lounging in her director’s chair. “It’s SO good to meet you! I have seen like every episode a gazillion times and I know them all by heart. You are a genius!”
Amy looked over at my dad and said, “You need to buy this kid some roller skates or something. Get her out of the house.” She winked at me. It took all of my strength not to spill onto the floor in joyful convulsions.
Even before leaving the set I was already beginning to feel like such a dork. All I wanted was to have a calm, cool, real conversation with these people, but I couldn’t help but act like a complete doofus. Even while in the vortex of my obsession, I always had the ability to see myself as the crazy freak that I am (That’s how I knew that I wasn’t actually psycho: because I knew that my obsession was ridiculous). Being on set was no different; even while blabbering on about how at my Bat Mitzvah I had talked about them in my speech (nothing short of pathetic), my conscience was telling me, “Shut up, Rachel. Stop before they refer you to their favorite rehab clinic.”
On my way out Lauren handed me a few signed pictures. On one she wrote, “Glad to be your Shaun Cassidy,” and on the other she wrote, “To Rachel: You are my favorite stalker. Thanks for visiting and being such a great fan.” I think I almost died of excitement when I read it. I also found her note rather humorous, as she thought the stalker thing was a joke, and, well, the LAPD would probably beg to differ. (But that can be our little secret.)
You see, in addition to a rendezvous on the set, my amazingly amazing cousins also decided to pull a few strings and get us Lauren’s home address. And let’s just say over my next few visits to L.A. I drove by her house enough times to know what color her doorbell frame was. I would jump out of the car, bolt up to her house and reach out and touch her mailbox, inching my finger toward it as if it might bite me (or hand me a restraining order). Looking back, it is funny to think that had Lauren known about my visits, I probably would have ended up in court, and possibly even jail.
I returned to the set on one more occasion, older and wiser yet still utterly star struck. While I met no stars on that visit, I did manage to steal a few props and a script (okay, so I have way too much of a guilty conscience to steal, but apparently my cousins don’t). I also got to touch Lauren Graham’s car, which was even more exhilarating than the mailbox.
Contrary to the beliefs of superstitious number freaks everywhere, season three was the bearer of bad news on the Rachel lives and breathes Gilmore girls front. The show’s plotlines became increasingly similar to those of daytime soaps where brothers become husbands and Grandma Erma turns out to be Bobby’s killer. Amy sold out to a bunch of other writers and things didn’t just go down hill, they essentially fell off a cliff, which consequently led to a slip from earth entirely. It was a rough year for me; on top of getting my soul ripped out and stepped on Tuesday nights, I was now a ninth grader and spent each day trying to navigate the foreign and often unfriendly hallways of Berkeley High School (it’s no Stars Hollow). My Gilmore girls were supposed to be my salvation, my familiar escape from the utter madness of Freshman Friday and Geometry tests. Thus, not ready to face the big bad world alone, denial was my primary coping mechanism through the May finale. By watching tapes of old episodes for hours on end, I was able to at least pretend that my passion for the Gilmore girls still triumphed.
As the days and weeks of the off-season fluttered by, the eggshells under my feet began to crack. I started to feel a lot older that summer after ninth grade, and with my newfound independence came an ability to accept the inevitable. One August morning, to the great shock of all those present in the vicinity of my Gilmore shrine, I simply got up, yawned, and proceeded to take down all of my Gilmore girls pictures and posters.
And that was that.
I stopped watching the show altogether for two years after that. There were many Tuesdays when I would look up at the clock ticking away towards 8:00 p.m. and feel a momentary rush of anticipation for the night’s episode—and then I’d remember that those days were no longer. But for the most part, there was not a trace to be detected of desire to watch the show.
While I adjusted quite quickly to my life without the Gilmore clan (although I definitely missed all the good times we had together), pretty much everyone else couldn’t get over the fact that I had ditched my ladies. “Wait. You don’t watch Gilmore girls anymore?” people would demand quizzically. I think because for the last three years of my life I literally couldn’t get through a conversation without a Gilmore reference, it was hard for my friends and family to believe that I could just leave them behind.
“It sucks now. I don’t have time to watch trashy soap operas,” I’d reply and then go about my business, as they’d stare at me in disbelief. I think there was a general feeling of “if Rachel can stop worshiping Gilmore girls, then is anything that I have believed true in the universe up to this point even true?” But don’t join a cult just yet folks, there’s no doubt that I do miss the good old days. Without the Gilmores to kvetch about the world is all of a sudden not such a happy place a lot of the time. Worrying about rational, tangible matters like world hunger, and terrorism, and whether Nick and Jessica are on the rocks can be very difficult for a young girl.
While it’s bizarre even for me to consider it, I sometimes equate my obsession with Gilmore girls to true love. The infatuation, the serendipitous meeting, and the deep sense of genuine care: delete “Gilmore girls” and enter “Joe” or “Pete” and you’ve got yourself an adolescent love affair.
And just as quickly as kids fall in love, so the story goes that they fall right back out of it. My obsession with Gilmore girls came out of an accidental press of the remote and ended due to a sudden and unfortunate retention of better judgment. There are still times when something reminds me of the Gilmore girls and I begin to daydream about my Gilmore encounters and slip back into my safe utopia. Especially now, as I find myself realizing more and more each day that I still feel way too teeny weeny to go to college and function without my mommy, I have been going back to Gilmoreland more and more. And there’s something nice about that; knowing that Lorelai and Rory and the whole quirky bunch are there when I need some denial to lean on. A part of me will always be safe with the Gilmores (so long as the cops don’t find out about the stalker phase).
I have not latched on to another show as I did the Gilmore girls, nor do I ever expect to. I think the bond I was able to form with my girls was something that can only happen as a younger kid; the mentally stable part of me has a hard time imagining me with a husband and kids postering my walls with pictures of hot twenty-something-year-old TV stars. But you better believe that if my kid ever decides to swear off reality for the lovely land of television, I’ll be right there next to them holding the magazine clippings, tape, and a fresh snack of gooily delicious macaroni and cheese.