My Review of the Golden Globes

Y’all, I did not watch the Golden Globes tonight. I want so much to give a quarter of a fuck about them, especially because of the insane love I feel for Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, and for the insane love I feel for shading celebrity dress choices (but not bodies), but I just do not. For one thing, these Law and Order: SVU episodes aren’t going to re-watch themselves. Plus, I’ve seen like, two of the nominated movies and probably .015% of the nominated television shows so I can’t enjoy the sole joy of watching an awards show, which is to nod smugly as various movies and television programs I know are announced as if I somehow made them myself. Also, since anything besides Frozen  was nominated for any awards this whole production is a bull(?)shit sham and I won’t be a party to it.

I also did not watch the Golden Globes tonight because I was busy experiencing a major life milestone. In the interest of a little backstory, picture it: New York City, 2008, the Upper West Side….

A broke actor/server server/actor, I relied on my roommate Gigi to cut my hair for me; her qualifications being skill and patience. However, Gigi was working a similar gig with different hours, so I decided to take matters into my own hands, despite the fact that I possess neither skill nor patience. I cut my bangs so short and jagged that I couldn’t even pin them back. In a headband, I looked like a troll doll going through something. A drunk five-year old with one side of a pair of safety scissors could have done a better job. Since then, I have not been allowed to use simple tools to remove any of my hair.

Brenda Walsh and me: living parallel lives

Brenda Walsh and me: living parallel lives

But tonight, a mere six years later, I successful cut my own bangs. I sent a selfie to Gigi to make sure I had permission. Hey! 24 year old me, it really does get better.

Like a fine wine

Like a fine wine

Also, Sunday night treat. Lascivious Lemur, you will love it.

Also, fair disclaimer, I am not Shannen Doherty, only a respectful and not at all dangerous fan.


Haters Wanna Hate

There is a news story at or near the top of every gossip blog’s site today: Taylor Swift did not win any awards at the CMA’s last night. I love celebrity minutiae, but even I can’t find one ounce of interest to spend on this story. Taylor Swift didn’t win an award? Big fucking deal. People don’t win awards all the time. I haven’t won any awards all week but you don’t see spending an entire post talking about it.

I do not like Taylor Swift. On the scale of Zooey Deschanel to Shannen Doherty, she’s not as terrible as Zooey “that y tells you I’m quirky” Deschanel, but she’s definitely more annoying than Anne Hathaway, and can’t even approach the midway point of Kristen Stewart Neutrality. Even considering her low status, I can’t understand the universal schadenfreude at her losses last night. Artists (and Taylor Swift) make music. Sometimes people like it, sometimes critics like it, sometimes no one likes it. Most of my favorite audition songs were met with blank stares to critical and patronizing looks from casting directors behind the table. Sure, typing that sentence makes me die inside, but the point is you win some, you lose some. Taylor Swift’s music is always supremely mediocre; it’s nice that the Country Music Awards committee has honored and recognized that, but that doesn’t really make it news.

Between incessant election coverage and Superstorm Sandy (which sounds more like a WalMart competitor than a devastating natural disaster), America is thirsting for good celebrity gossip. I exhausted my internet resources today desperately seeking something ridiculous. A Lindsey Lohan “exhaustion incident.” Paris Hilton offending an entire demographic without any irony. Maybe a Kanye and Kim story that didn’t involve them just wearing Halloween costumes. I need real shadenfreude, not this hollow, Taylor Swift didn’t win some award that a bunch of other people also didn’t win sham. Shame on you, gossip blog community. New York is in bad shape, but LA and London, there is no excuse. I need stars and semi-stars to make messes so I can feel smugly superior enough to power me through the end of this exhausting week, not news of something that didn’t happen. If anyone needs me, I’ll be gazing down on 5thAvenue, hoping to catch a Real Housewife (any wife at all) stealing money from a street urchin.

Dear Gossip Fates, If you will make it the Countess, I will never complain about how much people care about stuff that I don’t care about again. Love,

And I Want To Thank You

I am grateful for two years of allergy shots, since now I can safely walk outside in the pollen-filled air free without clutching Allegra, Flonase, and Singulair to my sinuses to ward off autumn’s evils.

I am grateful for my job, which has given me a modicum of economic stability.

I am grateful for my friends, who have all offered their hands, cars, music, and decorating talents to help with my move.

I am grateful for my parents, who coming to visit for Thanksgiving.

I am grateful that the season premiere of MTV’s The Challenge is tonight, because that is awesome.

I am grateful for the “like” guy in my office who reminded me that was happening, even though he wasn’t really talking to me and was super annoyed when I chimed in my excitement.

I am grateful for the white wine that I drank last night after having a not small anxiety attack over the giant check I gave my new landlord yesterday to hold my new apartment.

I am grateful for the beautiful day I can see out of the window that is kind of near my desk, even though it’s kind of cruel that a gorgeous day like this is on a Wednesday.

I am grateful for GIFs because they make staring at a computer screen all day almost half as fun as being out in the beautiful fall weather.

I am grateful for the mosquito that has been biting the shit out of me for the past week as I sleep, because I feel like together we are doing a science experiment on bug obesity.

I am grateful for the mouse I saw last night in my apartment; he reminded me to always be metaphorically on my toes and literally perched screaming on the back part of my couch.

I am grateful for cheese, which needs no further explanation.

I am grateful for Shannen Doherty, because she taught be how to be a badass.

I am grateful for Dido, because she wrote the song that gave me the title for this post.

I am grateful I never had to resort to light prostitution to pay for college, though I am thinking about going to grad school.

I am grateful that I read Anna Karenina because each subsequent book has been such an enjoyable, easy read.

I am grateful for concluding sentences. The End.

Introducing: Meme Mondays!

I learned how to use PowerPoint (seriously, miracle of miracles), so I’m going to start having fun with Meme Mondays. This first one has been quite the lesson; it took a lot longer than I thought, but it’s totally worth it to start off everyone’s favorite weekly tradition with the site’s unofficial mascot, Shannen Doherty, schooling everyone’s third favorite TV dad, Jim Walsh, about the topic everyone is tired of talking about, Chick-Fil-A.

Meme Mondays are proof that anyone can understand technology when putting words in Brenda Walsh’s Mouth is on the line. If you have a dream for a meme, don’t be too shy to email 

Twisted Thoughts That Spin Round My Head (Butt Surgery, Part II)

The day of my surgery finally came, and not a moment too soon. I had worked myself up about my pilonidal cyst so much by this point that I was sure that no man would ever marry me and no director would ever hire me. I’d convinced myself that this cyst made me a disgusting and marked woman, probably for life. Imagine if I could harness all my anxiety into something productive, like telekinesis.

My mom was supposed to pick me up from the hospital, but in an event that proves that irritating inconveniences are genetic, her rental car overheated on the highway from Phoenix to Tucson, so she was stuck on the shoulder of the 10 for hours as her only daughter was fighting for her life in the operating room. I mean, not literally, but when a bunch of doctors are operating on your butt, even unconscious it’s difficult not to die of embarrassment.

But I am a fighter, and found the strength afterwards both to live and to get into my roommate’s dad’s van, slumped over the passenger seat backwards, like a roofied rag doll. When I came to in my own bed, my mom was there stroking my forehead the way only moms can do. Later that night, she did insist on changing my sheets to hers because she didn’t like mine, but I forgave her that moment of high maintenance, since she dressed and re-dressed my behind all weekend.

The next few weeks of recovery were the worst; my 19 year-old pride prevented me from using a donut to ease the pain of sitting and I was afraid to lean too heavily into the loving embrace of Percocet, though I couldn’t abstain entirely. One acting class, our teacher had us play “Hunter/Hunted”, a game where blindfolded people chase each other around a circle in an attempt to connect with our survival instincts. Percocet and I sat that game out. The silver lining to those first few weeks was that my well-worn Saturn was stolen right after my surgery, so I had a cushy rental car seat to sit in every morning.

It took about six months of midday naps for my body to heal and nearly two years for me to really sit comfortably for long periods of time. My butt surgery did not keep me from relationships or jobs, nor did it get me cut from my program. In retrospect, I am proud of myself for being able to actively terrify two grown men with the intensity of my temper tantrum and grateful that I am now slightly less ridiculous and can reserve tempestuous reactions for really serious issues, like missing the train when I’m in a hurry.

There’s Nothing Like the Real Thing, Baby

The Awesome Opossum visited New York several times before we seriously made our way down to Chinatown for more than a cursory glance at purses.

What Awesome-O somehow knew, but I did not, is that the good purses are not out on display. You can look at that crap, but it will all be pretty basic and not a good enough to fool even your blind, deaf golden retriever. You have to walk through the streets looking coolly disinterested (not my strong suit) and wait for very tiny Asians to come up behind or next to you and whisper furtively, “Fendi, Fendi! Chanel!”

So, against my better judgment, we walked the streets actively looking for someone to take us into a scary back room somewhere. The first guy to give us a poke whispered the magic words and we followed him faithfully. When the three of us arrived at a brown van, the A.O. and I balked. One peek inside told us that what he had looked like real Chanel, but neither of us wanted to be the inspiration for a Lifetime movie about dumb girls who got murdered in Chinatown while hunting for frivolous material possessions. (Then we would have posthumously fought over which us Shannen Doherty would play. That’s not how you want to spend your time after shedding your mortal coil.)

We kept walking, the Awesome Opossum being mostly in charge of looking cool.

Then an elfin lady approached us from behind and whispered “Chanel, Chanel!” Undeterred by our near death experience, we cautiously followed.

When we arrived in the shadiest, tiniest backroom known to man, I was mesmerized by the treasures that lay before me. Coach, Fendi, Gucci, oh my! But the A.O. knew to head straight for the Chanel. They were clearly counterfeit (unlike the rape bait inside the van), but they were close to the real thing. We selected two beautiful bags; hers in black and silver and mine in black and gold. The Awesome Opossum managed to negotiate down to $60 for each bag. Needless to say, the adrenaline rush threatened to overwhelm my heart.

Satisfied with our haul, we booked it out of Chinatown and up to Central Park, where we petted our purses and had them talk to each other, just a little bit.

All I heard were compliments every time I carried that bag, but it broke within six months. Even sitting on a shelf in my closet, it’s one of the most fabulous things I own.

Why You Should NEVER Take on Shannen Doherty

I have unlimited admiration for many celebrities: Britney Spears, Jason Segel (sigh, heart-shaped thought bubbles), Jennifer Aniston, Bethany Frankel, etc. But no one inspires more respect or deference than Ms. Shannen Marie Doherty.

Here are the top ten reasons why:

1.  Shannen got into a fight with Paris Hilton, when people cared about Paris Hilton, and did not contract an STD.

2. Shannen has magical powers. She played a witch on Charmed for years and evaded the Devil in Satan’s School for Girls, and we all know that Shannen is method.

3. Besmirching Shannen’s good name in a tell-all book will cause your mom to love her dolls more than you.

 4. Probably shouldn’t have taken that red scrunchie at the end of Heathers Winona….


5. If you find Shannen’s pregnancy test in the trash, she will use her powers to make all of the hair on top of your head sprout out of your chest, back and shoulders. Amiright, James Eckhouse?

6. Going up against Shannen in beauty and talent competitions will lead you to become criminally insane.

7. Trying to take the lead in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof from Shannen will lead to your attempting suicide. AND dating Steve Sanders.

You’re lucky Roy Randolf even let you be the understudy!

8. Shannen has had her bangs since playing Jenny Wilder on Little House on the Prarie in 1981. Chuck Norris had barely grown a mustache.

9. If you try to have sex with Shannen in an “uncomfortable place”, be prepared to accept your Razzie nom for a little film called Jersey Girl.

10. If you wear the same outfit as Shannen to the spring dance, you will develop an eating disorder, be burned in a fire, join a cult, become addicted to cocaine, attract a murderous stalker, get shot, lose your memory, get raped, be accused of murder and have a child out of wed lock by a man who will never love you the way he loves Shannen.