Apparently, the song had something to do with this being a woman’s world, but clearly this is Cher’s universe and we can only be but grateful to be sleeping under the same moon and stars. The woman has paid her dues many times over, and if she wants to live out the twilight of her life looking Rufio from Hook, then we have no business stopping her. May God Bless and keep that rooster-headed drag queen.
I dropped my dad off at the airport this morning after a most successful long weekend with him. My mom told me to show him a good time so he’d want to get a job near LA and move the rest of the family here from NH. I think I did an okay job because he seemed pretty impressed that there were so many places to get bottomless mimosas and nobody seems to care if you walk your dog through Nordstrom. Things you just don’t see in New Hampshire.
Some fun activities I had planned included going to Ikea on a Saturday afternoon and then bringing him to my improv 101 show.
Just kidding, that was just a description of two separate layers of Hell. However, I am not kidding that that is actually how we spent his California vacation. But wait! We also spent some time putting together the Ikea furniture and then he took me grocery shopping! Soooooo, if you’re thinking about visiting LA and need a tour guide, I’m definitely a great candidate as long as you’re cool with spending $200 on me at Trader Joe’s and then just hanging a couple pictures, and if you have time, can you help me install some curtain rods in my room?
On Monday, I took my Dad to The Grove. We went to Planet Dailies and got a bunch of appetizers because he knows that my favorite kind of meal is comprised only of hors d’oeuvres (and I believe it is customary to do only what you want when hosting a guest in your home). Over sliders and lettuce wraps, he imparted this bit of fatherly wisdom: Bombay Sapphire Gin is smoooooooth.
After, we took a look around Dylan’s Candy Bar where I relived a recurring childhood disappointment of mine. All I ever wanted as a kid was something, anything, with my name on it, but there was always a “Dana,” never a “Dara.” I would have even settled for a keychain or mint tin that said “Jake’s Sister” since I was probably called that more often than my actual name.
Anyway, the show Extra is filmed at The Grove, and we saw Maria Menounos, Mario Lopez, Eric McCormick from Will and Grace, and most exciting, the woman playing Anna Nicole Smith in the Lifetime biopic. They filmed a bunch of stuff in different outfits, so I’m pretty sure you can watch my dad on Extra through the rest of the week because he was a natural at finding the camera.
Oh, I almost forgot, Mario Lopez has no ass at all. There’s just literally nothing there but a surplus of denim fabric.
With that, Mario’s butt brought our weekend to a close. Pops and I had a great time since we get along so well and because our requisite for a fun vacation is only that we get to eat and drink purely for sport, and that’s mostly what we did. I haven’t eaten bite for bite with a 6’1″ man since I moved away, and it was a great change of pace from my usual diet of brown rice cakes and red wine.
All my life, I’ve been the kind of person who clings tightly to her principles and convictions.
I am also the kind of person whose principles and convictions can be bought with blended margaritas and movie theater style nachos.
Do I consider myself a feminist? Absolutely. Will I speak up and defend myself or a fellow woman when I see a sexist injustice occurring? I believe it’s my duty. Am I so poor that I will throw all of this away so I can get my buzz on foh’ free at a Beverly Hills pool party? Within reason. But mostly yes.
The dissolution of my moral compass began when my roommate and I were invited to a pool party celebrating the birthday of Jesse from that Super Bowl GoDaddy commercial:
I’ve talked about it before, but if you’ll allow me to mount this high horse again, the commercial was sexist because it perpetuated the idea that women are supposed to be beautiful and men are supposed to be smart. Also it had a fat guy making out with a hot girl. What hope do us averages have of finding a man on our level if the media keeps telling boys and Kevin James that they are entitled to a woman who is 80% boobs and legs??
So, despite my reservations, I still wanted to go to the party because the poor kid was just in a GoDaddy commercial, not a Spike TV show. And I was promised free booze.
My friends and I arrived before Jesse got there, and after being handed a free(!!!) margarita, we were informed that they were filming a documentary on Jesse. The producer wanted a very specific shot of Jesse when he entered the party. He handed my girlfriends and me an armful Hawaiian leis and told us to go up to Jesse one-by-one and ask, “can I lei you?” Okay, so obviously this dude had no idea that this group of women included one who had read Hillary Rodham Clinton’s Living History.
This request made me thoroughly uncomfortable, but it all happened so fast! I suddenly found myself doing an awkward Target Lady-esque shuffle, mumbled a “here you go” and threw the lei around his neck like I was doing a county fair horse shoe toss.
I felt like an idiot, but I just gave it to Jesus and prayed that if this documentary ever surfaced that my future moms Amy and Tina wouldn’t recognize me thanks to my giant mosquito sunglasses.
I drank another Jesse-rita and felt better.
A few minutes later, the same guy asked if we would rub Jesse down with sunblock. To this I replied, “feminism!” and moon walked on my cork wedge heels back to the margarita bar. Listen, am I being a little over sensitive? Maybe. But there would never be a pool party thrown in honor of an overweight, 25 year-old woman just because she was in one popular commercial. How about this? If any hot man reading can tell me he was once asked by a producer to rub down Nikki Blonsky with some SPF at a pool party put together by her publicist then I will just delete this post.
Anyway, as my blood blended with the Jesse-ritas, I realized what a surreal situation I had put myself in. I’m 90% sure that the house we were at is also rented out to shoot porn. I’m also 90% sure that most of the guests at the party have shot a porn in that house. Please don’t misunderstand, though, this was not a trashy party. It was an absolute who’s who of Hollywood extras. There were some big G-list stars too: the cook from 2 Broke Girls, the nerdy guy with the Jew-fro from Glee (I can say that because we have the same last name), and most exciting, Yolanda Foster’s ex-husband Mohamed.
I only ever left my spot on my beach chair to get more nachos or to go to the bathroom (if I looked a little harder I bet I would have found a cocaine dispenser next to the hand soap), but it was a real trip, and it was certainly worth going to.
Next stop, the Playboy Mansion!
Yesterday, my roommate and I saw a Writer’s Guild panel featuring the writers from The Mindy Project. I brought along a copy of her play, Matt and Ben for her to sign and wore a neon pink jeans/chambray shirt/leopard print loafer outfit picked out with Mindy Kaling’s tastes in mind just incase we ran into her in the parking lot. The Girl Scouts taught me to always be prepared and that Samoas are at optimal deliciousness when consumed frozen.
They screened an episode and talked for an hour about what it’s like writing for the show, and then opened it up to the audience for questions.
Civilians asking celebrities questions is one of my top 100 pet peeves. It hovers around #48 right above people clinking their teeth on metal spoons when they eat. People just want to hear themselves talk. Like, unless James Lipton specifically asks you, no one needs to know what your major is in college. And it’s not necessary for 10 people in a row to thank the panel for coming. You paid to be there. Your gratitude is felt.
I considered asking a question, and I racked my brain for a good one until I realized that the only reason why I wanted to go up there was so Mindy would compliment my outfit and thoughtful question. There would be a witty back and forth between us, then I’d tweet her later that night, and we’d become social media friends until one day her assistant quits and she hires me and I become her protege and spirit sister.
By the by, living with my imagination is exhausting.
So, that was the wrong reason to ask a question, and I decided to just keep my mouth shut.
(But you should have seen my outfit, Mindy would have been so into it).
Scooter really is his name. Maybe I should have made up an alias for him, but honestly, the name is like, 80% of the story.
So, the two of us were texting before our blind date, and naturally I dropped that I had a blog because, truth be told, this thing is a real dick magnet. Sorry, for the crude phrasing, but there is no better way to put it. This blog is the Greased Lightening of digital media.
Scooter asked if I was going to blog about him.
Although I was entering into this date with an open mind, I knew somewhere deep down the odds were that I would end up blogging about a blind date with a guy named Scooter.
And here we are.
I have no choice. You know who did have a choice? Scooter’s parents. They did not have to name their kid Scooter, practically forcing me to blog about him.
But like I told Scooter, I only blog about people if you give me something to blog about. Bless his heart, he thought I meant if we had a great date, but I set him straight and let him know that this was all in his hands. I only blog about a guy when he gives me 400+ words worth of material (See: 700 words on The Bicycle Thief). Unfortunately for Scooter, I’ve already passed 200 words and I haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet.
Scoots and I met at a restaurant in West Hollywood, where the waitresses’ uniforms looked like they were in a production of Newsies at Saint Agatha’s School for Wayward Girls. It was both adorable and uncomfortable.
To get the conversation rolling, I told Scootie-Toots that he looked like Peter from Homeland.
It was as if I just told him he looked like Mandy Patinkin.
“But it’s a compliment,” I told him. Maybe he thought I meant Mandy Patinkin? “He’s the young guy who works with Carrie on season 2.”
“No, I know who you’re talking about, I just don’t look like him. We’re just both the same age with dark hair. That would be like if I told you that you look like Emma Stone just because you’re both pale red heads.”
At this point, I’m a little miffed. Obviously, I look like Lindsay Lohan circa Herbie Fully Loaded.
“Right, but I don’t look like Emma Stone and you do look like the guy from Homeland.”
From there the conversation only went down hill. We moved on from him vaguely insulting my skin tone to him flat out pooping on the city where I basically grew up.
“So, where did you go to school?” Scoots-boots inquired.
“Emerson College in Boston.”
“Oh, I spent about 6 months there for a TV show I was producing… Terrible city.”
“You know that those Boston Marathon bombings occurred in Boston, right? Like, two days ago.”
“Ya, it doesn’t make it any less of hell hole.”
It should be noted that Scooter was saying all of this in a pin striped blazer. He was saying this in a pin striped blazer, and this whole time his name was SCOOTER.
Finally, the bill comes, and I made a VERY half-hearted courtesy reach for the check. He looks at it and says to me, “guess what our waitress’s name is.”
SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOOOOOOOTERRRRRRR!!!!!
Victoria, if you are reading this, you were perfectly lovely, and those suspenders looked darling on you.
Scooter, if you are reading this, you can’t have that poor of an attitude AND be named Scooter.
Razor Scooter and I have not spoken since.
Well, Q. Wallis and I are gonna hit up the WeHo United Church of Christ to thank the Savior for this most delicious Friday. Then we’re off to Cabo’s Cantina for happy hour where we will thank Him for our most delicious watermelon margariterrrsss!!!! After breaking a few hundos at the nearest In & Out, we’ll stuff some ones in Q’s Gucci puppy purse and make our way to The Hollywood Men exotic dance revue. It’ll be an early night for my favorite Oscar nominee because SOMEONE has to rest her voice for Annie rehearsals on Monday!!! But that won’t stop us from a little M&M (mani’s and mimosas!!!!) while we read some scripts all Saturday afternoon. Sunday is a day of REST, and NO business talk allowed!!! We’ll watch some old episodes of The Good Wife on my DVR, say a prayer that our favorite dancer, Marc Antunny, gets that kidney he’s been hoping for, and then have a full night’s sleep because it’s RISE AND GRIND on Monday morning!! LOL #hardknocklife #jk #blessed #GetWellMarcAntunny
The Met Ball is one of the most exciting fashion events of the season! is something someone who knows about fashion would say, right?
This year’s event was “punk” themed, and I guess we learned that celebrities aren’t great at interpreting and following directions?
Lily CollinsChristina Ricci
Pacey Witter’s Girlfriend
Your efforts were noted and appreciated.
That GAP maxi dress would have been fine if this was the Kid’s Choice Awards, Kate! Show some respect, you could have at least put a safety pin through your earlobe or done anything that would indicate you took this theme seriously.
On the other side of the coin…
WE GET IT, JENNIFER!!! YOU’RE LIKEABLE!!!!!
Though I’ve never been a fan of Kim’s, I suddenly have an overwhelming sense of compassion for her armpits and the armpits of women in every grocery store in America who are being subjected to this magazine cover. I realize that Kim is probably gaining this weight so she can get some sort of Jenny Craig deal after that set piece of a breathing infant pushes its way through her Kanye Kanal. If she develops preeclampsia it won’t even matter because I’m sure the line between real life and Ryan Seacrest’s SimCity has completely disintegrated at this point.
For this exercise, let’s just assume at this point that Kim has no human emotions left. So, even if a close up of her armpit on a national magazine couldn’t crack through her exterior (which I’m assuming is just one big coating of gel nail polish and melted polyester) and hurt her feelings, it’s still hurting my feelings! I’m a size 2/4. I am not Rosemary’s Babying Ryan Seacrest’s devil child. And, yet, I think I have “fat armpits” or essentially, “vagina arms.” You’d never know because I’ve become skilled at flexing whenever my self esteem smells a camera within 15 feet of me, but if you caught me walking down the street in a tank top… there they’d be. Now, thanks to InTouch, I am reminded that fat armpits are a legit concern and I WILL NEVER BE SEXY AGAIN.
Women in hair salon waiting rooms don’t need to be reminded that there is another part of their body they can hate. You know that stupid Dove commercial where they bring in that “police sketch artist” or “actor” and then they try to pass off your low self esteem as your own fault?
It’s not your fault (here’s a great counter to that Dove commercial). Because you wouldn’t know to be self conscious of your arm pits if magazines didn’t show you a picture of a beautiful, pregnant celebrity, circle her fat like a sorority sister during Hell Week, and say “EWWWW SHE’S GROSS! YOU’RE PROBS GROSS, TOO! PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR CELLULITE CREAM AD ON PAGE 78!”
I think I’m doing enough worrying for all of us, but what will become of Q. Wallis and her puppy purse?
What was in that purse, anyway? A Lip Smackers chapstick and a baggy full of dry Cheerios? Could her mother not hold on to that, or was her purse too full of her daughter’s money that she’ll hold on to until she’s 18 or legally emancipated, which ever comes first?
I apologize for all the questions, but I don’t think any of us, including that child’s mother, are looking out for this girl.
We’re all realistic about Honey Boo Boo and where that is headed, but just because Q isn’t swilling Go-Go Juice and snorting pixie sticks at her mother’s behest, that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to end up the same way (being exploited by Dr. Drew).
Have we all just forgotten Tatum O’Neal? She’s not just that awful lady who shoe-shames Carrie on that one episode of Sex and the City. She’s Tatum O’Neal, 10 year old Oscar winner for Paper Moon. By 12, she was with Melanie Griffith having hash fueled orgies in Paris. That’s a pretty quick turn around. Grant it, I’m pretty sure since Drew Barrymore left rehab you’re not allowed to give 10 year olds cocaine and a Manhattan for a job well done at the Spy Kids wrap party, but I still don’t trust Q Wallis around those Hollywood vultures.
Even if she never touched a bottle of Go-Go Juice her entire life, I still don’t have high hopes for her as an adult. You can’t nominate a 9 year old for an Oscar and not expect her to be the kind of person who throws Quinoa salad at her assistant because she forgot to ask for chickpeas on the side. By 9, you’re beginning to enter your character building years where you develop a sense of humor or other pleasing personality traits that distract from how crooked your teeth are. Q has an Oscar nomination. That’s her compensatory personality trait. She can basically just stop developing and maturing as a human being right now. She probably has already dropped those “please” and “thank you’s” from her vocabulary all together. She can just say “HUNGRY” and bang her Austin Film Critics Association Award on the table until some PA magically appears with a Happy Meal. Someone should have told her that making muscle arms when they say your name at the Oscars is unseemly and doesn’t display a lot of humility. Instead, Giuliana Rancic goes on and on about how adorable it was sealing her fate as a future high maintenance, disagreeable grown-up child actor.
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Or maybe Elle Fanning is offering Q her first frozen pina colada at The Rainforest Cafe while we sit idly by thinking nothing’s wrong.