Sunday, April 25, 2010

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me... Don't act like you're not excited...

Due to my unscheduled hiatus I have had several weeks to stew over this particular point of contention...

And it is as follows...

OMG! WTF, ANTM?!?!?



As you may have noticed, my Next Top Model updates have been limited to... well, two. Two posts about the show that has, in the past, been one of my favorite guilty pleasures. This is partly because I fail at life, and partly because THIS "CYCLE" SUCKS JAVALINA TESTES!

 (In case you haven't had the pleasure, this is a Javalina... or "Satan's Rat Pig" as it is sometimes called... by me. I will spare you the vision of it's testes)

Where's the drama? Where's the juicy, low blow, mascara tear inducing cat fights? Where are the attractive model types? WTF, ANTM?!?!?

It's come down to the sorostitues vs. the hood rats. A house divided. A shit ton of shrieky, shrill, nonsensical lunacy. Shouting matches about eggs and bunk assignments and fuck all... I can't even force myself to feign interest in these hookers teeny tiny little lives.

And what's worse? They're not pretty.

I pay a lot of money to watch attractive people do stupid shit. And every month, when my exorbitant cable bill arrives, I nod begrudgingly and say, "So effing worth it!" This cycle of whore bags is forcing me to reconsider my position...

I couldn't even type that with a straight face... Lies... NOTHING can come between me and my extended cable package... NOTHING!

 (And yes, I had the same haircut as a kid... And no, I don't still resent my mother... And yes, that last part was a lie)

That said, however, I do tune in every Wednesday, teeth clenched, white knuckled, hoping against hope that something blog-worthy will transpire.

And there it was...

A pattern...

A fatal flaw...

A wounded gazelle...

Our favorite Bat Shit Looney Toon, T. Banks, has taken to the 80's onesie like Oprah to a trough o' chocolate frosting,

like Josh Duhamel to transvestite clown hookers,


like Jon Gosselin to Ed Hardy... and fat...


Oh, and she doesn't stop there. She marries this wardrobe ATROCITY with Robert Palmer Music Video hair and innocent, unsuspecting, fabulous stilettos that deserve more respect and reverence than Ms. Banks can offer.


This has gone on for WEEKS now. Doesn't this show have stylists? Isn't this an enterprise based exclusively on the fashion industry? Aren't we, as viewers, expected to look to these style icons as an example of luxury and grace? WTF, ANTM?!?!





































I'm not ready to give up completely, my series recording shall remain intact. But I am losing my once unshakable faith in this particular "Bankable Production". The Reality TV graveyard is beckoning, and I'm ready to put down a non-refundable deposit to reserve the plot between Temptaion Island and Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire... Shape up, ANTM, or you'll be meeting your maker before Tyra can say something absurd in a poorly executed fake accent...

Saturday, April 24, 2010

The bitch is back...

Alright, listen...

I try to keep my personal life, personal. I try not to force my abundance of ish on the blogosphere masses (or the 63 of you that read my nonsense). And frankly, I can hardly force myself to care about my own shit, so I can't imagine that anyone else might. 
But I feel you deserve an explanation. Thank you to those who have resisted the overwhelming allure of the "unfollow" button. And to those who could not muster the strength to man-up and go down with this ship, you are welcome back anytime. No questions asked... perhaps some name calling... and fair-weathered follower references... but no questions.

So here's the deal... not the excuse... the real deal Hollifield.

In February, my boyfriend of over two years and I split... boo hoo hoo, right? Everyone's got a sad story... Except I wasn't sad. Or I thought I wasn't. It was a long time comin' and all for the best. And I finally, somehow, managed to untangle myself from his infinite web of lies. But there was a life that had been created with him. There was a future that had been planned. And that was all gone.



Apparently, I coped by quitting life.

I mean QUITTING life. Or rather, my old life... the life I had with him.


I moved out of his rental house that I was sharing with his sister (ummmm... obvy... there is potentially no bigger shit storm than having an ex as a landlord), I stopped auditioning, I quit looking for a new job, I started going out every weekend with my ladies, I abandoned Facebook and email and returning calls, I forgot to eat, I drowned myself in Reality TV and age inappropriate dramas. And sadly, I bailed on the blog.

I just couldn't find anything funny to say. I couldn't find ANYTHING to say, really. I was too busy running.
I probably still am.

But it's time to face the G.D. music. I'm a grown ass woman. And it's time to rejoin civilization... okay, no it's not, but it IS time to seek out that which I love again (i.e. acting, blogging, NOT working as a medical receptionist.)  This bitch is back, baby, buckle up... (and ps- that alliteration just kicked Shakespeare's ass)


So here's to the next chapter... 'Cause it's my memoir. So no one can write it but me.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Jill + Bob 4-Eva

There are several benefits to working as a medical receptionist...

And by that I mean none... There are NO benefits to working as a medical receptionist... not even medical benefits, believe it or not.

So for 15 years, off and on, as I drag my sorry ass out of bed to the piercing sound of my alarm clock's devil cry, I have told myself that someday, SOMEDAY, something has to come of this personal hell I've created. That wading through the feces and the crazies and the tales of herpes simplex 1 would all someday prove to be worth my while. And I would cease to live a life of cynicism and regret. The burning hell fires of hatred would extinguish in my formerly hopeful heart, and I would once again see a glimmer of possibility.

That day came on Saturday. In human form.

As anyone who knows me, or doesn't know me, or that has perused my blog, or been within ear shot of my obnoxiously loud speaking voice can tell you... I am a reality TV whore. I will openly and proudly sell myself for a DVR'd episode of any number of trashy reality fare. I live vicariously through the effed up lives of others in a desperate search for their 15 minutes. Or Prince Charmings. Or size twos.

As an actor (or someone claiming to be an actor) I, unfortunately, cannot allow myself to participate in such juicy spectacles... for they are career suicide... wait, I have no career... hold on, I have to go nominate myself for The Bachelorette...

....

....


Okay, thanks for your patience...

Where was I?

So there I sat, all a twitter, waiting ever so patiently for the next installment of (insert name of dignity consuming shit show here) when I get an email from my dear sweet goddess of a mother, who works for the same company I do.

To: jill@hellonearth.org


From: bestmomever@hellonearth.org


Subject: New Wing Opening


Lilly~


We just booked BOB HARPER from The Biggest Loser to come speak at the opening of the new wing! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Invite the girls!


Love you,


Joe Mama

It felt like YEARS would pass before that fateful day when my gay boyfriend Bob (sexual orientation still unconfirmed, but c'mon now) would go rogue and propose to me in the ultimate Love-At-First-Sight-So-Intense-It-Forced-An-Impromptu-Team-Switch situation. But as I trudged along, day after day, hour after hour, I FINALLY had something keeping me going.



And then it was Saturday... the Saturday. I had hardly slept the night before, like a crumb-snatcher on the eve of Christmas... or a tween on the eve of the next Twilight movie release... or a Biggest Loser contestant on the eve of... a mountain of chocolate chip cookies...



My bestie and I arrive with the vain hopes of simply catching a glimpse of Bob's beauty in the flesh, or a lewd conduct arrest for bum rushing him onstage and dry humping his skinny jeans. Either way. Just being in the same room with him was reason enough to bring me to Satan's Lair (i.e. my place of employment) on my day off.

My glorious mother, who was one of the people in charge of the event, informed us that she had reserved us front row seats for Bob's inspirational hub-bub (which was "technically" not allowed... but my mom is a rock star).


She then showed us around the new wing, of which I could not have been LESS excited to see, and we took our seats in frenzied anticipation. Five minutes before Bob was to take the stage, my angelic maternal figure appeared with a sharp and terrifying "COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!" And as we hustled through the masses, at mach speeds, my mind raced... Knowing my mother she was taking me to meet some medical big wig that she had told all about me, who's son was an actor in Paducha, Kentucky, and had just landed some local furniture commercial that was sure to be a hit. My hopes were not high.

But as she led my bestie and I through closed access doors and down hallways lined with security, my heartbeat accelerated ever so slightly... was this it? Could this REALLY be happening? And then the woman who bore me shoved me around a blind corner and I was face to chest with the one and only BOB HARPER (that mo fo is tall as shit). What happened next is a blur... I made a face that only belongs on registered sex offenders, which surely terrified him as the reaction on his face was one of "SECURITY!", I said "Hi, Oh my God, I'm Jill", to which he smiled and stuck out his hand and shook mine, my bestie introduced herself in a much suaver fashion, and we were whisked back to our seats, as quick as we had came.

Bob was then introduced to the masses, those poor insignificant peons, and we sat and "listened" (salivated) and felt snug in the knowledge that Bestie and Bob and I had an unspoken and unparalleled connection, and these other fools were just room fillers. We laughed, we cried, Bob talked some shit on the Biggest Loser bitches. When he told stories he made direct eye contact with bestie and I, and we had soon earned the hatred of every straight woman and gay man in the joint.



It was surreal.

There was a book signing, with a line that rivaled 4am at Wal-Mart on black Friday... which, of course, we didn't have to stand in, because our books were in Bob's "green room", awaiting his personal message.


 And then it was over. Just as quickly as it had started.

We were later informed that minutes after our personal handshake meet and greet, Bob looked about the joint and asked "Where did those cute girls go? It was so exciting for a minute." And then he immediately added "Jill + Bob 4-eva" to his inked out torso...



And it all fell into place. 15 years of hell is a small price to pay for a soul mate. But you just can't deny kismet.