Gossipista!

Man oh man, the celebrity gossip is on hyperdrive this week and like the jingle says, I'm lovin' it. Fez started spouting off at the mouth about his sexual conquests on Howard Stern (and if you don't think I'm going to download the audio on THAT one than you are sadly mistaken, bub). I hear he yapped about deflowering Mandy Moore and that Jennifer Love Hewitt was an 8 out of 10 in the sack and that someone liked her some backdoor lovin' (my money is on Lohan, but that's strictly a guess). I've always wondered what it is about that guy that gets him so much play. Clearly it's his tremendous amounts of class.

Sadly, TomKat hasn't yet split. I watched a big old thing about their $20,000 spending spree at some fancy baby place. I loved how that the salesgirl insisted that the $200 faux-mink baby blanket was "Essential! A must have!" (Yep, that's the word that pops to mind when I think of when I think of faux-mink blankets - essential.) Frankly I'm still so freaked out by the whole silent birth thing that I almost can't watch.

Almost.

Pray for the children of the world.

All those little bags of future money...

I can see Daddy Simpson's eyes lighting up already.

Dude, you could paint my cats purple for that price.

I just heard that Prince is renting a house for $70,000 a month.

I'll write that again, in case your eyes just bugged out.

$70,000 - A MONTH.

He painted the whole thing purple and installed plumbing for a beauty parlor in the master bedroom and now the owner is suing him for damage or something. I say if you're spending $70,000 (A MONTH!) you get to do whatever the damn hell it is you want to the place.

For those of you who are befuddled

by the next post, check out here first. (Scroll down to Sam's first posting.)

Guest blogger--Samuel L. Jackson on the move!

It seems I'm hot shit here in the blog-o-sphere. People want the Samuel L. Jackson.

Mr. Jackson:

Do you have any cooking advice for me? Or maybe a recipe?

Matt C., a big fan

I got a recipe for you, bitch!

Take one [1] plane.
Add one [1] crate of motherfucking snakes.
Mix it up.

There! You've got yourself one badass blockbuster. But watch your lips on the filling, that shit is piping!

Ah, the business we call "Show".

I went out for an industrial for a mental illness medication the other day. They actually faxed the sides over ahead of time which is unheard of. Once I got them I understood why - it was a full on monologue. The character was described as an actress, 35. "She's pacing, with large theatrical arm gestures. Something is definitely off."

At first I was all offended that I was being sent out for the mid-thirties character (versus the dewy skinned but unfortunately schitzophrenic 22-year-old) but then I caught sight of dreaded elbow droop and had to accept the truth. You can Botox and exercise all you want but nothing gives away your age like that tell-tale flap of skin.

The casting director was a sweet fella but seemed to have as much invested in his job as I do in dentistry. "Oooookay, remember that she is REAL so just make it very conversational. Like you're talking to your therapist."

"While pacing with large, theatrical arm gestures?" I helpfully smart assed.

"Mmm, yes."

The writer and producer were there (unusual for a first audition) seated behind two enormous cue cards. They told me the same thing as casting dude; conversational but crazy. But not too crazy. (But a little crazy.)

Righty.

So I started. I skipped the pacing part and just concentrated on the crazy. It was kind of fun, allowing myself to be as uninhibited as I absolutely can't in most theatrical auditions. They kept stopping me to tweak things; a little faster here, not so big here. It went well. They even checked if I was free on the shoot dates which is always a good sign. (The producer actually asked if I was certain that I wasn't going to book something recurring, referring to the SVU appearance on my resume. Uh, yeah, I'm sure...)

Got the call a few days ago - I'm on hold. It's not a booking, but my agent said it looked pretty likely.

Which means there's no way in hell I'm getting it.

Narcissism 101

I think it's time for another installment of:

THINGS ALISHA LOVES!

Because she can't think of anything else to write about.

- Adidas Absorbent-Deo

As someone who gets a touch nervous about the alleged side effects of aluminum in deoderant (breast cancer, alzheimers) but can't deal with the hippy/crunchy (ahem, ineffective, ahem) Tom's of Maine crap (don't get me started on those giant crystals you're supposed to rub under your armpits) I was hesitant about trying this non-aluminum deoderant, but then I started reading raves in various womens-y mags and decided to give it a shot. The stuff rocks. It smells lovely and is completely invisible, unlike other "invisible" sticks that still seem to leave stupid white streaks on my black tank tops. And because it doesn't have aluminum it won't leave yellow armpit stains on your white shirts. Now this is not the stuff to wear on those big job interviews - you can occasionally get a little damp if you're really sweaty - but for day to day wear, it's damn good.

- Demeter's "Dirt" fragrance

I almost don't want to give this one away... Demeter is the perfume company that does all the crazy realistic scents like Sugar Cookie and Clean Laundry and Mojito. And while they all smell exactly like they say, smelling like a sugar cookie only makes me want to eat. But dirt? Delish. Yes, it smells exactly - EXACTLY - like potting soil, meaning it's a gorgeous, fresh, heady scent that immediately transports me to summer in the garden. Their Tomato scent is spectacular too but I think Dirt is even better. It's oddly sexy too.

Crap, I'm out of time. More to come!

Well hello there, Braggity Brag Brag!

Holy crap, I got my first fan mail today! Okay, so that's not entirely true - after my first story came out I got a couple of emails from former classmates, but since I had working knowledge of their existance they didn't seem so fanlike. But today I got a letter from a grade school teacher who wants to use my Trump story in her gifted classes as an example of... uh... momentum or something! My favorite part of the email was when she mentioned that were several aspiring writers and actors in her class who would be excited to see just how far their talents could take them. (Welcome to the wonderful world of catering, kids!)

And then I got an email from a guy who told me how hilarious I was in ALL CAPS. Which means I'm doubly hilarious, right? Man, I feel awesome. Not as awesome as as the chick who won a million bucks in the Pillsbury bake off using frozen waffles as stuffing, but awesome nonetheless.

It's probably funnier in print.

My latest story is in the paper today. (Banished to the oft-ignored Monday edition. Drat!) But they kept in the word "damn". Can you say "damn" in a small town paper? Without little old ladies getting their panties in a twist? Maybe the paper's courting controversy, who knows. Anyways, you can read it here.

So get this -

The Church of Scientology is maybe, possibly, probably looking to buy Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch. Granted, it's just a rumor... but a really awesome one. It's just so crazy - Scientologists running wild in a place where Michael allegedly (ALLEGEDLY) molested little boys just piles on the crazy. This clearly proves Einstein's "Blanket Theory": wacko energy attracts wacko energy.

There are more jokes here but I'm just too dumbfounded to get to them.

It's about fracking time!

Apparently my husband got the message - the cards, the tear stained letters - and has decided to reactivate his blog.

If you like the humor, go to www.theblatantlyobvious.blogspot.com

And yes I know he's funnier than me.

For Val

Here's what you lucky, lucky people get to see peering out from the pages of blankety-blank magazine for another whole year! (Thanks to Ted for the pic.) Keep a'coming Money Train! Keep a'coming!

It's like sleeping next to a fart fountain

Matt called me at work tonight complaining that his tummy hurt. I was about to feel all wifely and concerned until he told me what he had for dinner -

- pigs in a blanket
- onion rings
- brussel sprouts
- a Cadbury cream egg
- Mountain Dew
- Cheez-Its
- beer

We won't discuss the stink that's gonna come out of that man tonight. We just won't discuss it.

I'm on a roll

Expect to see more of my crazy mug; my Prevacid ad has gotten picked up for another year!

Bring it, Ann Landers! Bring it!

So (theoretically at least) my latest tale will be in the Topeka Capital-Journal this Sunday. So far I've been in the Religion and Teen section; this time I'm gunning for Sports.

Today Cap-Journal - tomorrow sweet syndication! BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

Courtney, Courtney, Courtney

Go Fug Yourself, what are you doing to me? Seriously, the downhill slide has gotten awfully slippery every since she let that homeless guy suck on her boob outside of McDonald's.

She was once respectable, right?

Go Fug Yourself is always a great read, but this one takes the cake.

I need to read a book.

So did Brad and Angie get married or what? And why does Jessica Simpson think that being in a movie where you wear boots means that you now know how to design boots? (Now if she were designing bras, that'd be another story. Girl knows a thing or three about having big titties.)

And that's my cue to go to the gym.

Forget Google. Buy stock in Joe.

Trader Joe's opened this week. People. People. This excites me like you would not believe. C'mon - TRADER JOE'S! The best food store EVER is in my city. Now I know I should hold off, wait for the crowds to recede and then check it out, but I am nothing if not a sucker for immediate gratification.

There was a line. Not surprising. What was surprising was that it was the line to CHECK OUT. Yes. Yes! The line wrapped around the entire store. People were leaving their baskets inside the store and going outside - OUTSIDE! - to wait.

I think I'll get my chocolate covered rasberry sticks next week. And my potato chips. And my delicious cheap wine. Oh who am I kidding, I should go line up now!

(By the way, I've had a glass of wine. I can tell I'm tipsy because of the inordinate number of caps.)

Fishing

Say, anybody good at writing compelling pitch letters? In my push to become the next Dave Barry I'm hoping to pitch a column to a large(r) newspaper and I don't quite know where to begin. Surely one of you brilliants out there knows a thing or three about pitching.

I am yours for the guiding.

Teeny-tastic!

New Yorkers are always inventive when it comes to living in small spaces. (We have to, what with paying $2K a month for an apartment the size of a suburban tween's bedroom.) Now I think I'm pretty good with decor but this stuff kicks my ass all the way to IKEA. (Though truth be told, whenever I see these tiny, tiny places that clearly cost a mint to furnish, I always wonder why the owers didn't just save their money and buy a bigger place.)

Damn, kid.

Last night "Billy" (the 9 year old) popped out with this winner:

"Here, you get the big headphones because you have a bigger head than me. And because you're older than me. MUCH older."

I was about to grab the tape measure (the kid has a cranium the size of a small state) but then he haaad to go and add that last bit. "MUCH older". And while yes, technically, I am much older I'm not MUCH older. I mean, people still ask me my major! That's not something you ask a MUCH older person. (And my head is small for a person of any age.)

Seriously, it's time to start aging up. 92, baby. 92.

Go fuck yourselves, Scientologists.

That's right - bring it.

So first Isaac Hayes ("Chef") quits South Park over the Scientology episode, according to Yahoo news.

THEN Tom Cruise threatened that unless Viacom pulled the Scientology South Park episode, he'd cancel all MI 3 advertising. (Thanks to Stef for the info.) Now how exactly Tom Cruise gets that level of power, I don't know (is he the ONLY producer or something?) but, get this - Viacom buckled.

It makes me want to stop watching My Name Is Earl and The Simpson's, just because so much of that money is being ferrited to these morons. Insane. In-fucking-sane, these people.

One! Two! Three!

Holy crap, how could I have forgotten?!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MISS MOO!

I've known you now, what - 14 years? You're still adorable.

I'm officially a writer.

Got my first rejection letter last night from the magazine I sent my Trump story to. (I know that's terrible grammar. I KNOW.) I'm not that surprised - the magazine has totally changed directions and a quirky little comedy story about poorly coiffed millionaire doesn't hold a candle to "I WAS SEXUALLY HARRASSED AT WORK - BY A WOMAN!!!" or "I lost my best friend to ovarian cancer". Why don't more magazines print quirky little comedy stories? Especially the ones written by me?

Off to sit on both the kids (baby and Billy). Entertain me children. ENTERTAIN ME.

Party your incredibly expensive panties off!

So last night's big event wasn't actually that bad. It was a riff on Truman Capote's Black and White ball; they actually recreated the Plaza Hotel inside of the auction house where I work. Everyone got totally gussied up (black and white only - except for the one narcissist who decided to wear silver) and we entertained ourselves playing "Worst Dressed", "Most Plastic Surgery", etc. One guy was dressed like a Russian officer, straight out of Three Sisters. Full military frock coat, big curly mustache. He looked fantastic. Another guy dressed as Bottom from Midsummer Night's Dream, complete with papier mache ass head. I'll take stuff like that any day over (yet another) tasteful silk slipdress. The only celebs I saw were Kitty Carlisle Hart and Aisha Tyler. (The chick from Talk Soup and one season of Friends.) The woman is amazonian - like, 6'1" and skin and bones. Which is irritating because she always talks about the fact that she's such a "healthy" size for LA. If that's healthy...

It's time for These People Are Not Like Me, a smattering of last night's most annoying comments -

As I passed a plate of homemade marshmallows drizzled with chocolate:

"It looks just like a Prada skirt!"

As I passed a plate of miniature cupcakes:

(me) "Cupcakes?"
(gentleman with dubious look on face) "Of?"

Um, sugar? Cake? Delight? I mean, come on, guy.

Working until 2 am. Give me strength.

Short post - a bit of a working stiff and I promised I'd finish my latest Cap-Journal piece this week. So.

Had my meeting with the agents today. Went... okay. Don't ask me what I expected.

Okay, I totally expected that they'd be really, really enthusiastic! Or something! And they were nice and pleasant and nodded at all the right times but all in all - eh. So we'll see.

In the meantime I've figured out how to download the latest Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me episodes off of Itunes so I'll get by.

Yes, honey I'll buy more pigs in a blanket...

So who here's hungover?

Quite a bash I threw myself last night. People stayed till the wee hours and nobody threw up or broke stuff, which is always the mark of a successful party. But my signature cocktail? One gigantic, Vitamin C fortified headache. One part vodka (by the end of the night, two parts vodka), two parts cheap champagne (five parts champagne? Why not!) , top with pineapple juice. Don't shake (whoops.) and serve. Shit packs a whallop.

By the way, Cranium? The best game ever invented. Kudos to the Matt for thinking of it. My team did not win. Luckily I was too drunk to notice.

Understatement of the year

A friend of mine wrote this to me today and it was so crazy I had to share:

"New York has seemed extra 'NEW YORK' to me recently. Today I was having a quick cup of coffee before my job. It was a small café so I wasn't offended when an old lady came and sat down opposite me. I was looking out the window but also at her out the corner of my eye, thinking she looked nice. A lot like Joan Fontaine the old hollywood star, very elegant and civilized and pleasant. Then she gets out this HUGE syringe and injects herself in the stomach right infront of me.

That's just not right..."

I would so not have handled that situation well.

Hello Mr. Tummy! I thought you were gone!

A quick shout-out to Amanda and Sharon for the bodacious birthday tulips! I couldn't believe it when I saw a big box 'o flowers for me. Nobody sends me flowers! (Are you reading this, husband?)

I'm having a party tomorrow for, well, me. (And fellow birthdayans SWMNBN - "she who must not be named" - and Chintamani.) It's probably tacky to throw yourself a party but I'm not known for my class. I'm feeling a little anxious about it. There's cleaning required. Lots and lots of cleaning. And baking. And general party food purchasing. What do people like to eat at parties? I'm skipping the fancy brie and fruit platter for something a little more low-rent. I'm thinking bagel pizzas and Doritos. But what do you all crave? Weight Watchers would SOOOOO not approve of my week. The roll of belly over my (new!) jeans doesn't approve either. Fuck 'em both, I say - until next week, that is.

When I was in Harvard I smoked weed every day.

Natalie Portman hasn't done much for me since The Professional - but this totally redeems her.

It's all about Princess Me-Me! (Whose nickname was that on tour? An only child never tells.)

Well, well, it was a fine birthday if I do say so. Nice way to start off year 34. (I mean, 92.) Many song-filled phone calls, several cards, then a trip to the gym (Is 20 minutes enough? Ah, sure) before hitting the stores. Bought myself some much needed denim (that's what the cool people call "jeans" now. Which is apparently why they cost $90), some pant/skirt hybrid from The Gap (it makes my aged ass look sweet), a push-'em-up brassiere (the girls need a little nudge) and some cute shoes. I also ate a boatload of non-Weight Watchers approved crap, bemoaned the fact that Chloe won Project Runway over my beloved Daniel V. and had dinner with my man. He even let me swap desserts with him when mine kind of sucked.

And to top it all off, there's a brand new season of America's Next Top Model starting up! Screw writing - bring on the emaciated wannabees!

A woman's rule of thumb

Not that I subscribe to such nonsense but hell, it's still pretty funny.

"If it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it."
Women's rest-room, Dick's Last Resort, Dallas, TX

(Thanks, Walter!)

One! Two! Three!

HAPPY BIRTHD - Holy smokes, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

Yes, friends, at 9:01 am CST I will be 92 years old. Man, the time sure does fly... It seems like only 34 years ago I was busy getting birthed, spanked on the ass and sent home to live with two great parents and a dog who tried to eat my face. (Actually, the dog might not have been around then.) Good times.

I feel like I should do something spectacular in this next 26 minutes of early mid-30dom. Can you bungee jump from the 12th floor? Can a "policeman" come a'knocking? (Bring on the tear-away pants!) Chances are I'll probably be cleaning out the cat litter box instead of holding my own personal parade but it's nice to dream.

I plan on going to the gym, seeing if I can get a massage, heading to Banana Republic with my $33 credit and $15 off coupon and having dinner with my man. Unless stripper-cop shows, that is.

Wonder Woman in her Wonder Bra

Kristopher, the funniest fucker in my family (next to Matt, of course) is quite the artiste. Some of his stuff creeps me out (big creepy eyes! Big creepy eyes!) but the Flash in his underwear? Priceless.

I'm gunning for him to start of series of portraits: Superheros in their undershorts. The Hulk would be awesome.

"I will get you! You are mine! I will destroy you!" (Which audition was this line from?)

In the past two days I have auditioned to play a girl on a really bad date, a schitzophrenic, a guardian angel and a computer virus.

If I book the angel job, I get to be flown. Like, flying flown. Like Cathy Rigby flown. If you strap me in a harness, the awesomeness would not stop. Nor, I fear, would the screaming.

One! Two! Three!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHINTAMANI!

(Man, I'm friends with a lot of Pisces!)

One! Two! Three!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED!

And the winner is...

If I could look like Nicole Kidman for just a minute and a half, I think I'd be happy. (Although I think my husband would prefer Salma Hayek. When she walked out, I swear he growled.)

And didn't Michelle Williams have a baby like a minute and a half ago? DAAAMN!

Winners, schminners. Just show me what they're wearing.

How did they manage to hold their drinks without opposable thumbs?

Last night I worked a wedding. It wasn't hifalutin' - most of the people were normal, simple folk from Rhode Island, the kind who stare at you blankly when you offer them a Croque Monsieur until you tell them that it's a mini ham and cheese. All in all it seemed like a pretty uneventful evening.

Until somebody shat on the floor.

Yes.

And one of the waiters had to clean it up. Thank God that waiter wasn't me. Bless the gal who did it; she's a hilarious, Oh for fuck's sake type and she'll get a hell of a story out of it but honestly, there's no way. My rate for shit picking upping is hella more than $20/hr.

GUEST BLOGGER!!!

GUEST BLOGGER! GUEST BLOGGER!

Yep it's me, Ali's better half here to regail you with the story of my wife's Drunken Friday with Art! (Art as in paintings and stuff, not some sailor named Art. That was last week.)

For those of you not living in the New York area, we have been experiencing some frigid temperatures lately. Last night was a doozey. So I, in in my infinite wisdom and common-sensical nature, decided to stay in and stay warm with a stack of comic books. Yes you are picturing it correctly - I literally covered myself with a blanket of comics and prayed to the baby Jesus to make the cold go away. A night well-spent, says I.

But my little wifey, she went out on the town with a friend to celebrate their respective birthdays. A night of boozing, gossip and well . . . Art. Fast forward a few hours to Ali stumbling home at the crack of NINE PM! Yes, she stayed out well past the time when normal folk are just about getting home from work. This party-kitten painted the town red for like a whole HOUR AND A HALF! But stumble-home she did after a drunken "There is no way I can figure out how much to tip this cabbie, so I'll just start shouting out random numbers and see if he likes the sound of one" moment. Once safely home, she regaled me with the story of the magical champagne, which after only a glass and a half, plasters you silly. (the evidence suggests that she drank a BIT more than that, but I'll let the matter rest for now.)

Oh, yeah the Art. Some folks go clubbing, go bar-hopping, while some go to the Whitney Bi-Annual to drunk-laugh at modern art. It's a New York thing. I'm sure she'll have more to say about the actual art, but me I just like the idea of her and her friend wobbling through the museum and asking the security guards where the cash bar was.

(ps - my comic-book cozy evening is mock-proof, so don't even try.)


-Husband

Former editor, where hast thou gone?

So I just submitted my first piece to a particular woman's magazine. (I'm scared to write the title. Hello, clip services!) While I'm optimistic, I'm not holding my breath. Why?

They asked for my age.

I used to love this mag - it was geared to women in their mid-late 20's and had the perfect blend of guilty pleasure/snarky writing to keep me hooked. Then they got a new editor and suddenly I'm reading Seventeen.

It doesn't bode well.

Dum-de-dum-dum.

So last night I got dropped by my theatrical agent. Not the best email to come home to. It's not as painful as breaking up with your boyfriend - it's more like getting dumped by your really nice pimp - but it still leaves you feeling a little less-than. That said, after many inspiring pep talks from Stefanie (and, of course, Matt and mom) I'm feeling pretty motivated. I got dropped mostly because, well, I'm not making them any money. The problem with acting in New York is that most of the work is in LA. so you're left with regional theater and Law and Order. (God bless you, Dick Wolf.) While there's nothing wrong with regional theater, going to Pennsylvania to do outdoor Shakespeare for two months just doesn't hold the same thrill it once did. I would be completely happy doing commercials and the occasional TV appearance and rolling around on my pile of money instead of shlepping to Rochester for an Ibsen play. Does that make me less of an actor? Eh.

Anyway. I'm signing up for a Writing For Women's Magazines class at MediaBistro, I've got new color headshots, I'm going in to my commercial agents today to discuss our future and Gary Coleman is flirting with me. Life isn't all bad.

I'm such a samaritan.

As an obsessively narcissistic Google searcher, I fully admit that I've looked up my name a time or three. But that was before Google Alerts. It's like a clip service, but for free. You sign up and then any time your name is mentioned, Google sends the clip to you. Type in Google Alerts (yes, you actually have to Google search it) and follow the easy steps.

My work is done here.

Let the self-loathing begin!

So my birthday's coming up. There's nothing like entering your middle late 20's (or so) to make you think about what you've accomplished in life.

Did you know that Vera Wang was the editor of Vogue at 23?

THE EDITOR OF VOGUE! AT 23!

Clearly I need to get cracking.

I think my subconscious is trying to kill me.

First I was making out with Mo, Santino and Seth Green. Now my mind is playing "More Than Words" overandoverandoverandover. And overandoverandoverandoverandover.

I read that the government blasts Christina Aguilera when they're being all punishy. Trust me, Extreme's nonsensical power ballad would do waaaay more damage.