Monday, August 31, 2009

How do I love thee, let me count the whores...

Last night on My Antonio, a challenge was presented... write Antonio a love letter (after knowing him less than 72 hours, but whatev)

Having written Antonio many a love letter throughout the years, I thought I'd take a whack at it.

Dearest Antonie Brentano Antonio~

Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, and then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us. I can only live, either altogether with you or not at all.

Ever thine.
Ever mine.
Ever ours.

Ludwig van Beethoven ~Jill

Okay, seriously though...

Dearest, Hottest, Antonio~

16 years, you and I, and look how far we've come. Sure, it started with you in your underwear... and then me in mine (wink, wink, giggle) but it has turned out to be something so much more than a physical chemistry (not for me, of course, but I'm pretty sure you worship my entire being like a street dog does filet mignon). Yes, we had some tough times and some sad times and some silly times. Like that one time I hid in the bushes and waited for you and Virgina Madsen to get home from her Hideous Snaggle Face Club meeting, and I jumped out of the bushes with my machede and threatened her within mere inches of her life... that was silly. Or when I went to your house to surprise you wearing nothing but a positive pregnancy test and you called the police and filed a restraining order stating unequivocally that you had never ever seen me before and there was no way that this was your baby and I explained that I actually had some homeless woman pee on the stick and as luck would have it even homeless people get laid... silly, silly, silly.

But through it all, we've remained. Through all the tabloid stories that weren't about you because no one in America remembered who you were until this ridiculous reality dating show, through all the failed USA made for TV movies, through all the Dog Judging contests on Animal Planet, we're still just as solid as we were in 1993... like a slab of granite we are.

Needless to say, I think your stupid hot. And I would sacrifice some stuff just to nuzzle your bare chest. I will need you to put on proper swimwear though, these spandex boy shorts aren't exactly working for me. And also, keep your mouth shut, I hate to be reminded that you are quite possibly the douchiest douche that ever douched.

Sincerely, etc. Your Faithful Follower,


Sunday, August 30, 2009

I love my boyfriend, he smells like fish...

Last night my boyfriend and I tried to share the kitchen in an attempt to make a joint meal. Okay, what really happened is, my boyfriend, (Let's call him Bobby, or Unable to Relinquish Control For Even a Second, but Bobby is probably easier) attempted to make a meal, and I attempted to help. Poor decision on my part.

First, there are some things you should know about me. I am not kitchen material. I was not raised in a "let's all help cook and therefore learn by proxy" kind of house. I can make 7 things that are edible: chocolate chip cookies, chicken enchiladas, breakfast casserole, crab artichoke dip, chicken broccoli & cheese casserole, pasta, and cereal. While I make those 7 things well enough to serve to the gods, each item listed basically requires throwing all the ingredients in a dish and letting the oven take over. Difficulty Level: Participant. Not to mention, it's a short list, and not enough to keep anyone fed for any length of time. Everything else is a recipe for disaster.

Also, good to know about me, is that I'm pretty particular with what goes in my mouth, and that includes food. Texture, taste, expiration date, freshness, whether I've heard of it before, are all major factors I take into account prior to eating anything.

This leaves Bobby in a somewhat precarious position. See, he works at a fish market, which is both aces and lame. Aces because I LOVE and I mean LOVE salmon, and crab, and lobster. Lame because I'm not a fan of black cod, and halibut, and swordfish, and a lot of the other mysterious sea creatures he brings home. And also lame because there are only so many nights one can shovel fish, albeit delicious fresh fish, into one's gullet.

That brings us to last night. Bobby and I's first attempt at homemade lump crab cakes. Seemed simple enough. Mix, form into patty, fry. The problems started around the mixing portion of the program.

*side note* It is also important for you to know that while my handsome guy is a very good cook when it comes to improv and creating his own dishes, he is also very ego driven and impatient. This of course means that the EXPERTS that spend YEARS trying and perfecting recipes, don't really know what they're doing so it's always, FASTER, HOTTER, MORE! They ask for a tablespoon, Bobby feels it needs a cup. They say cook slowly, Bobby turns it up to the highest setting. This has left us with many a burnt protein, a Salt Lake soup, and a fiery-daggers-shooting-down-my-throat appetizer.

That said, crab cakes be damned, we were gonna have ourselves a meal. The next hour consited of "Babe, we need to add more hot sauce... you won't even taste it"s and "I'm gonna throw in some more butter, 4 tablespoons doesn't feel like enough"s. And a whole lot of "Babe, here let me." and "No, don't! Wait! Stop, you're not supposed to...I'll just do it" I admit I'm no Wolfgang Puck. Tom Colicchio and I will never share a kitchen. Bravo will not be calling to solicit me for Top Chef: Seattle. But, I CAN STIR CRAB AND MAYONAISSE IN A BOWL.

The cooking adventure ended how it always does. I threw my spoon in the sink, grabbed the latest issue of People and sat on the couch, pouting while he finished the meal. The crab cakes ended up being far to spicy and a little burnt, and it wouldn't have taken Sylvia Brown to predict that.

And this is why I stick to take-out.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

The only thing better than My Antonio would be My Chocolate Covered Antonio...

In the absence of an interesting life, I shall dazzle and intrigue with a list...

11 Reasons Why My Antonio on Vh1 Is Better Than Sex

1) Instead of staring at your "significant" other, you get to stare at Antonio Sabato Jr.

2) It lasts an entire hour

3) These bitches paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to look like that, and you still look better crumb covered and make-up free sitting on your faux leather couch with a mouth full of Doritos

4) There are a lot of tears, and for once, they don't belong to you

5) Instead of rolling over and instantly slipping into a coma when it's over, Antonio tells you exactly what's going to happen next time... and he never fails to tantalize

6) Antonio Sabato Jr.'s dimples are not on his ass

7) All the ridiculous, insensitive, and/or crass comments that come from Antonio have been edited out, and all that remains is romance and chocolates

8) When Antonio Sabato Jr. rejects a "woman" the phrase "you are not getting lei'd tonight" is used

9) You only have to do it on Sundays

10) The rejection is brutal, and not aimed at you


11) He always hits the sweet spot!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

This just can't be summer love...

Alright, I'll admit it. I get a little too emotionally involved in other peoples' relationships. Real or imagined. That is to say, sometimes there are characters on TV shows that I sort of believe are my friends and may need my advice every once in a while. And sometimes there are celebrity couples that I read about so often, it feels like it might be time to invite them to dinner.

Here are some of the couples I feel this way about:

  • Felicity Porter & Ben Covington- Felicity (1998-2002)
  • Carrie Bradshaw & Aidan Shaw- Sex & The City (2000-2002)
  • Ross Geller & Rachel Green- Friends (1994-2004)
  • Sydney Bristow & Michael Vaughn- ALIAS (2001-2006)
  • Jennifer Garner & Michael Vartan- Real life (2003)
  • Matt Saracen & Julie Taylor- Friday Night Lights (2006-2009)
  • David Beckham & Posh Spice- Real life- and only because I'm waiting for him to dump that zero and get with a hero, which in this case would be me- (1999-2009)

This is just a sampler platter of the actual list.

Now, while this might be a little "insane" or "disturbing", and you might be justified in calling me a "stalker", I feel I am just the obvious product of a society that lambastes me with constant imagery and trivia and gossip about all the beautiful people. (Granted I make the choice to watch the shows and buy the US Weeklys, but that is neither here nor there) And REALLY? Is it any different from the Victorian times when people would sit around with tea and parasols and gossip about The Royals? Or when women actually fainted at the mere glimpse of a Beatle or Elvis?

That said, I have some concerns about one of my couples... I can bite my tongue no longer. I'm afraid Justin is never going to take Brittney back. And that is not okay with me.

For three years, the Billboard Golden Couple reigned supreme, styled in matching denim outfits and golden highlights. He with his boy band, she with her Oops, I did it agains. Arriving at all the hot parties and awards shows hand in hand, cheek to cheek. Armed with a mutual Mickey Mouse Club past, working their way up the charts and cementing their in place in all of our futures. It was a TimberSpears match made in Bubblegum Heaven.

Then that fateful March day in 2002, when the news broke of the Justin/Brit break. Was this just another spoke in the break-up/make-up wheel, please God? Alas, t'was not. This time not even a co-Grammy could not mend the fractured duo. And we soon found out why, thanks to a solo album and some Cry Me a River lyrics...

Oh Brit, what did you do?!?!?

As the years passed, I was forced to accept the increasingly present slut factor in my dear Miss Spears. Justin lost his kinky coif, Brittney lost her damn mind. There were Federlines and Diazs. There were train wreck performances (Brit) and inflating egos (Justin). Yet, through it all, I stood by, wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin', plannin' and dreamin'. And I'm done sitting idly by, I must take action!

Dear Justin Timberlake,

I realize the love of your life, Brittney Spears, has done some questionable things. I know that the entire Federline era was a colossal mistake from start to finish. I, too, questioned the decision to not only record, but also release the Blackout album. (I also caught the irony of the album title and the fact that she is a RAGING alcoholic) The 2007 Video Music Award performance was enough to send you running for nearest corner to hug your knees and attempt to banish the memory of ever putting your P in her V, I got that. And then with the razor to the head, and the umbrella to the car, the nightly ambulance rides to the psyche ward. What I'm saying is, I understand the great feeling of trepidation in getting involved with her again. You are Justified (see what I did there?) in your concerns. But enough is enough. She's back on her meds, she's released ANOTHER kick ass album. She's in shape again, thanks to hours of dance numbers. And we all know that snuggling up to that gristley SHE-MAN Biel is no picnic.

You've made your point. No one will think you a sucker. Just please, stop denying the love that dare not speak it's name and take your Brittney back. We shall all be the better for it.

Your friend and confidant forever,


Saturday, August 22, 2009

Now is the summer of our discontent...

I spent the last 7 weeks taking an Intensive Shakespeare class... which in essence means I paid someone $500 so that I could stand up in front of room full of ego-maniacal, creative types and humiliate myself by attempting to speak the words of, what most literary analysts consider, the greatest wordsmith that ever lived...

The class was comprised of a few college theater majors, some amateur local actors (which is to say some who didn't pay 6 figures to learn what can't be taught), one or two literature buffs (nerds) obsessed with Shakespeare's cannon, and our instructor, the greatest, ball- busterest, hard-assed, Queen of Shakespeare. She is a former teacher of mine from college, and essentially the ONLY reason I took this class. I do love me some classical text, but probably not enough to mortify myself in front of a room full of strangers twice a week for seven weeks.

Amongst the group, the Mean Girls. The girls that threw me right back in to the paralyzed, insecure, yes-man (gal) of my younger years. Mere moments after the start of the first class, these three had teamed up, formed a gang, no doubt called The Plastics or The Sorostitutes, and started whispering judgments to one another whilst cackling and inventing secret handshakes...

Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I felt shunned nonetheless. And I'm no table 9er. I have no major deformities, my style errs on the side of fabulous, generally people like me once they get to know me. It's possible I appear the bitch upon first glance, and I'm a skosh sarcastic and dry humored, and I say mildly insulting things to get a laugh. But they didn't know any of this yet! And still, I was not invited to the tea party.

Class one, in a nut shell, went as follows...

Teacher: "Now we're going to go around the room and tell everyone a little bit about ourselves and our relationship to Shakespeare text."

Queen Mean Girl: "Well, I've ALWAYS LOVED Shakespeare. Ever since I was born. I'm pretty sure I played Lady Macbeth in utero. I was the BEST! Growing up I was in EVERY SINGLE Shakespeare play that was ever written. I pretty much wrote them myself. I guess you could call it a collaboration, but I think we could all agree that it's mostly my voice. I'm perfect for every role Shakespeare, or rather I, ever wrote. I teach Shakespeare for the Stage as my day job. And my fiancee is hot."

(Insert oohs and ahhhs from the two adopted minion Mean Girl followers)

Teacher: "Anyone else?"

Queen Mean Girl: "I've prepared a monologue. To be or not to be..."

And as the bile rose up into my throat and my eyes began to water, I thought, 'Mutha trucka, this is going to be a LONG, expensive summer."

Thursday, August 20, 2009

To blog or not to blog...

(And yes, I know it's been done... I'm doing it anyway)

Let me start off by saying that the phrase "I stick to my guns" (which I'm not even sure makes sense) does not apply to me. And here's why...

Approximately, four years ago a little site called Myspace swept the web and took EVERYONE I KNOW right along with it. Myspace stalking became a staple of everyday conversation, "I love your new layout", a phrase heard round the world. "Not I", said I. Myspace is stupid. Myspace is for losers and wannabes. Myspace is full a' trills and predators cleverly disguised as 16 year old cheerleaders. Myspace will NEVER be my space. Cut to: me sending friend requests to the EVERYONE I KNOW that already has a Myspace page whilst apologizing for the conclusions I may or may not have jumped to. And moments later posting a Myspace bulletin-quiz that has me wetting my own pants, I think I'm so hilarious.

Then came facebook. Oh, facebook, you wily little minx. Again, I say, not a chance. "I already have a myspace page. Will there be no end to this incessant need to find new and less personal ways to communicate with those we consider 'dear friends' and by that I mean 'people we may or may not recognize in the harsh light of day'?" And now? Nightly, I scroll the likes of my "friends" updates, living vicariously through and in closeted envy of all those who've updated before me.

Did I Sure I did, that lasted until a disgruntled "fan" from high school sent me a feisty little message about how I ruined her life. Awesome.

Twitter, you say? I signed up, of course. However, I fail to see the necessity behind informing those "following" me of precisely what I'm doing at any given moment... No offense, Ashton, but no one gives a shit! (it is possible that there is a sprinkle of bitter in there somewhere, as the only people "following me" are strippers and corporate advertisers).

That brings me to this.

The blog.

My dear friend, and top contender for funniest person I know, Mama Kat, has been all-consumed with her blog from the date of it's conception. She solicits followers, posts pictures, tells personal, detailed stories about her family. And I, not being the most supportive ignoramus going, poked and poked and laughed and poked and quietly envied from afar.

Until today.

Let me introduce myself. I am a 29 year old, medical receptionist/actor (who hasn't booked a gig in over a year. whatever. it's a dry spell.) in desperate need of a creative outlet that does not include the gut-wrenching rejection that is chucked at my quivering, unassuming pride as I depart each and every audition I attend.

Please to enjoy.