If she can go, I can go!

So I was glancing through the Emmy's Worst Dressed List trying to come up with some suitable questions for discussion (Why the ridiculously overexposed titties, older ladies? Why the slicked back, Vaseline'd do, chick from Grey's Anatomy?), but then I stumbled upon a pic that made me ask a bigger question:

What the hell was Tracey Gold doing at the Emmy's?

(Boys, avert your eyes.)

I love going to the girl doctor. Love it. I especially love the speculum. I swear to Christmas, no matter how many times I do it, no matter how deeply I breathe or loudly I hum or how much they "warm" it up for me, having a duck-billed metal contraption stuck inside your twat (then OPENED! OPENED!) always feels vaguely prison camp.

But tomorrow. tomorrow's gonna suck. Tomorrow I get to go have a sonogram. And not just one - two! One done from the outside and one done ... somewhere more invasive, if you catch my drift. Still, sticking a electrode up my lady parts, while not my definition of a good time, doesn't faze me nearly as what I have to do beforehand.

I have to consume five glasses of water.

And hold it.

This, my friends, is a trick akin to Houdini and the chains. To David Blaine and that ridiculous box over London. To Copperfield landing Claudia Schiffer. Because as we all know, I can't not pee. It's a physical impossibility. I pee like people breathe. To steal a quote, "The only time I don't have to pee is when I'm peeing". Seriously, I should get T-shirts printed. They know not what they ask when they ask me to consume that much liquid. My husband and I almost came to blows when he banned coffee from our honeymoon. (Apparently I was impeding our progress across Ireland. Whatevs.)

I have a feeling this is going to get really ugly, really fast.

Alls I have to say is, I hope I don't elecrocute myself during the process.

This is my life.

Sorry for the underwhelming amount of posts as of late but it's takes a few days to recover from being doused with squid.

Actually, I don't know that "doused" is the right word... "Beaned", perhaps? "Pummeled"? "Shocked and Awed"?

So we got to the park in Queens and aside from some light rain, it was all systems go. Granted it was the middle of the night and we were lounging on picnic blankets in a park in Queens with 200 extras but still, relatively normal.

Then we saw it. A crane full of squid, positioned over our heads like... well, like a crane full of squid. Hanging 30 feet in the air was a platform covered in full-sized rubber sea creatures. It was menacing, I tell you. Menacing. One of the other girls turned to me and whispered, "My agent told me that they'd be styrofoam!" Another girl said she'd heard that they really hurt. I should've known something was up when I spotted the ambulance. (There were medics too. You know, just in case.)

The director came forward and told us to pretend that we were watching a fireworks display. But most importantly, no matter what, we were to act like everything was absolutely normal. Which it was. Until they unleashed the crane full of squid. It was like being pelted with rubber chickens. Rubber chickens that had been dropped 30 feet. An old guy in front of us was the first to go down, exploding in a torrent of obscenities. A poor female extra who'd been made to lie face up, exposing her to the full brunt of the rubber madness, was next - followed shortly by everybody else. This lasted roughly five takes. I managed to get seriously nailed only once but the old guy? He was having none of it. Instead of playing along like the rest of us, as soon as the squid were released he'd start flailing like an epileptic, screaming "JESUS, GOD!" and "FUCKING SQUIIIID!"

C'mon, who can keep a straight face when that's happening? I mean, please.

Unfortunately, this didn't go over too well with the crew.

To be fair, the crew had just come off a 20 hour day. They were done. They were not in the mood to deal with some gripy old guy who kept ruining the shot, forcing them to reload roughly 400 heavy rubber squid high in the air. I'm not saying that after a few takes they intentionally started loading the really nasty, heavy ones over Old Guy, I'm just saying. Luckily the producers quickly realized that this particular acting approach wasn't working so instead they told us to really get into the squid. Smile! Clap! Love the squid!

You can guess how well that worked out.

Finally they caved and had us act like normal human beings who were being pummeled by heavy objects. Madness ensued, and it was hilarious. We were so tired (and so hopped up on sugar to keep us awake) that we just lost it. Picture 200 people flailing and screaming and cowering while being pelted with squid in the middle of the night in Queens.

Genius.

It was, to put it mildly, something.

Whoa.

OOH! OOH! OOH! (That's not a monkey sound...)

Grouch

A quick jealousy-tinged rant to get my day started off right:

So I was at the fitting yesterday and there was this girl - one of those gorgeous, all-bravado, "Get outta my way 'cause I'm gonna be a STAR!" types that just stick in my craw. You know the type; jumped into every conversation, kept bitching about all the "huge" jobs she lost to various "heifers"... The kind of girl I hate, A: because she's so good at getting attention and B: because as much as I want to be her, I so don't want to be her.

She's got one of those bodies that slay me; a Winona Ryder-y build with the good fortune of being exceptionally tiny while still rocking a formidable pair of tits. (My green-eyed monster hates to admit that they were clearly real.) I was standing next to her in my T-shirt and shorts(rocking the potbelly!) when she starts "muttering" (loudly enough for me to hear, of course) something about eating a burger. When I turned to her she starts going, "EAT A BURGER! Told me to 'Eat a burger'!" She turned to me with wide eyes, like the wardrobe girl had told her to go fuck herself, which is probably what she meant. "'Eat a burger', can you believe that? I try to eat, I really do!" Her voice took on a whiny, "I'm so bad" tone. "But sometimes I just forget!"

Let's get this out there for the record: NOBODY FORGETS TO EAT. And the people who say that are big liar pants. I have never once forgotten to eat. I've been too busy to eat, in which case I make sure every person within earshot is made aware of that fact but I've never forgotten. "Forgetting" to eat is like "forgetting" to take a shit. Bitch, please.

Has anyone here ever forgotten to eat? I don't mean Ooops, It's 3:00! I Missed Lunch! forgot; I'm talking forgot-forgot. Like gone a whole day without eating forgot. If that's the case I'll eat my words. (Unless I forget, that is.)

(I'm gonna bet booted in the ass for this negativity, right? I'M SURE SHE'S A VERY NICE PERSON AND I WISH HER NOTHING BUT SUCCESS! How's that, karma?)

Beep... Beep... Beep...

Dude, I won! I WON I WON I WON! I've never won anything before! (A fruit cake from the McCarter Elementary School Carnival Cake Walk doesn't count because nobody wins with inedible baked goods.)

There it was, on my machine - a message from a popular entertainment magazine telling me that I'd won the "Of Massive Proportions" GRAND PRIZE! Holy shit! Not only did I win a prize, I won a prize of massive proportions! A GRAND PRIZE OF MASSIVE PROPORTIONS! What could it be?! A spa weekend? A cruise? A trip somewhere... somewhere MASSIVE?! What could it be?!!

I won 4 tickets to Massive Attack at Roseland.

Who the hell are Massive Attack?

I don't recall entering a contest for tickets to this band. I'm sure they're great, but... I don't recall entering a contest for tickets to this band. I went online to see if I could get more info but all I discovered was that the value of the prize was $300. My first thought was "Can I scalp these and make $300?" but I figured that karma wouldn't be too happy about that when there were so many other people who would love tickets to... who are they again? Then I thought about going. I mean, grab a few friends, sneak up to the V.I.P. section (who knows? Maybe I'd be IN the V.I.P. section!), have a few laughs... But they're an electronica band. I barely made it though one repetitive, mind-numbing song on iTunes.

I'm gunning for a trade. Maybe the PrizeGuy will have some ballet tickets or wine tasting classes that are of no interest to the kids and will swap them for this electronica bullshit.

Still, it's cool to win.

Wardrobe malfunction

I had my fitting today for the commercial. Three hours. THREE HOURS. See, I thought there were just a few of us in this spot. Oh no. Ten. Ten people of various ethnicities, all of whom will be competing for camera time because it's gonna be waaaay too easy to cut some of us out of it.

There's an asian couple, a black couple, two white couples and an elderly couple. It's a Benetton ad. They asked us to bring our own wardrobe which doesn't bode well (how much are you spending if you aren't even supplying costumes?) but I'm trying to think positive. After about six wardrobe changes they went with what I was wearing when I walked in - shorts and a Tshirt. The fact that I'd been wearing this outfit all day didn't seem to phase them. (Although the stink when they hit it with the steamer might.)

Celeb spotting! (I'm still hoping for a Santino.)

Two VERY exciting celebrity sightings, folks! Last weekend I crossed paths with none other than Voldemort himself, Ralph Fiennes. He was very tall and sweaty. He was also wearing a raggedy T-shirt and sweatpants and his hair was all sticky-uppy like he'd just come from the gym. My first thought (after "OHMYGODIT'STHEENGLISHPATIENTWHYDON'TIHAVE
ACAMERAPHONE?!") was that if he was your blind date, you wouldn't be all that psyched. Until he opened his mouth, that is. (English accents raise your attractiveness quotient by 60%, it's a proven fact.) He was almost, dare I say, nerdy. I read on Gawker that he was spotted a few minutes later at Balthazar, a chi-chi French bistro, with some young, well-dressed blonde. Obviously the dude doesn't need to dress to impress.

Then today while returning home from my weekly grocery run I saw my new favorite (and unfortunately former) Project Runway-er, Malan! Yes, Malan of the unusual teeth and indeterminate accent! He was wearing a lovely beige suit (was there a pocket square? I'm thinking so!) which attracted a fair amount of attention. (It's not often you see someone wearing a suit in 85 degree weather in the middle of Hell's Kitchen.) He gave me a small grin which, after an overly enthusiastic thumbs up from my end, immediately became his trademark full-on, scrunchy-face smile.

As creepy as that smile is (and oh boy, is it) I will say that in person seems awfully endearing. He was SO happy that I recognized him, so unabashedly excited, so filled with glee - I mean, who's gonna rain on that?! He was also headed to Chipotle while wearing a highly stainable suit which won him an endless amount of points in my book. I can't tell you how close I came to following him in. The inevitable napkin arranging would've been well worth the price of a burrito.

It's all you!

To help ease the pain from the sudden departure of our sweet betta Bill, we did what any grieving pet owner would do and got ourselves a brand new fish. Boy oh boy, is he a beaut! Bright red with little green sparkles! Alas, thus far he has no name. Early frontrunners include "Mr. Sparklepants", "Michael Cerveris" and "Dr. House".

Suggestions?

I am so awesome.

So lookee who booked herself another commercial! That's right folks, you're looking at the new face of alcohol! (I'm still too scared to name names but if you email me I'll happily fill you in.)

Now I've done some crazy commercials over the years. I pretended to be British for an entire shoot for MTV! (Don't ask.) I spent six hours in the freezing fucking cold giving the stink eye to a bikini-clad Rebecca Romijn-Stamos while being directed by the lead singer from Devo! (Don't ask.) I've uttered the line, "Mmm, fiber!" But this one? Three words:

Pelted. With. Squid.

You read that right, folks. Pelted with squid.

(Don't ask.)

Yo, Carter.

Does anybody know what happened to Ted?

Sandwiched between Sports and Obits...

My latest might be in tomorrow's Cap-Journal, so those in T-town - keep an eye out.

He had glowing eyes! I swear to God, glowing eyes!

Now this, THIS is insanity!

Priceless

If you ask me, none of my audition stories top this one from my friend (and frequent commentator) Stef.

"So I had an audition today for this year's new annoying Radio City Christmas Spectacular commercial. The scenario is familiar - I'm taking my daughter to the show for the first time... The casting director hands us our Radio City programs and tell us to take our seats and act excited to see the show.

Action: The girl looks at her program, announces that she doesn't celebrate christmas, gets up, and hands the program back to the casting director.

And... curtain."

Friends, I would've paid cold, hard cash to have seen that. Fantastic.

(Stef's email was followed by her husband Michael's particularly brilliant - and tongue-in-cheek - response: "You should have started screaming, 'Mel Gibson was right, you're all dirty Jews out to get me. I hate this fucking industry! Jews, JEWS, JEEEEEWWWWS!!!!'")

How To Be A Commercial Actress

So this is what it’s like to be in demand! After months of less-than-enthusiastic representation, I’m finally auditioning like a real actor. Frankly, I'm even more convinced that this is the dumbest career in the world. (Scratch that – those Jackass jackasses have the dumbest career in the world.)

Want to know what auditioning for commercials is like? Come with me!

Monday: First up, an alcoholic beverage!

The premise: A happy family sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. There's no scripted dialogue, no story, no nothing, so just cut up your imaginary turkey and make small talk with a table of strangers pretending to be your family. Be sure to keep your mouth a sanitary distance from the cutlery and most importantly, make it real!

Next up: A large discount chain!

A tip: If you’re the only person who isn’t there for a callback, you’re not getting the job. If the director walks past all the girls, singles out the prettiest one and tosses off “Let’s see if we can get it for you this time”, you’re not getting the job. Most importantly, if there happens to be a blackboard with the sentence written on it, say it. It doesn’t matter that the line isn't mentioned in the script or that the blackboard is shoved over into a corner. Or that the board HAPPENS TO BE BEHIND YOU. Say. The. Line.

(Okay, how was I supposed to know “What are you doing?” was a line? I thought it was more of an existential question…)

Tuesday: a pet location device!

Show up, get handed a card with a number. (Just like in “A Chorus Line”!) Wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally, go in. Get a step-by-step from the unenthusiastic casting director. “Hold the card up under your chin. State your name. Turn to profile, but just one turn, not two. ONE TURN. Turn back and put the card down on the podium. I’ll pan down to do a full body shot. Then say ‘I am not allergic to dogs’ followed by something about loving dogs or a story about your dog or something.” When storytime comes, begin babbling about how much you love your English bulldog named Bill. Hope the casting director buys it. (Pray if you book the job, they don’t ask you to bring him, seeing as how you actually own two cats.)

Wednesday: A callback for the adult beverage!

After ten years of auditioning at this casting office, you finally meet the woman who owns it. (She looks just like her sister, that famous Broadway singer!) She’s actually running the call and she’s… under-nice. (See: “Having Famous Sister”.) Notice that your seating position at the Thanksgiving table leaves you with your back to the camera. Try to scootch around so that the camera can see your face but get blocked by fellow “family members” who refuse to move, thereby improving their own face time. (Bastards!) Casting director keeps yelling “YOU, cheat to camera! CHEAT TO CAMERA!” Ignore all rules of etiquette (and sense) while trying to come up with creative ways to eat your imaginary meal while facing away from the table. Fail.

Next up: A toy company! Groan inwardly at the godawful copy. Do everything in your power to make lines like “Your children play the piano very well!” and “Why, it’s music to my ears!” appear conversational. Get paired with a nervous Asian lady but somehow manage to stumble through. Be thankful that you wore your "Young Mom" polo shirt.

A call from your agent! The adult beverage people LOVED you! They want to see you for another spot! Now. (Apparently your inability to cheat to the camera was a selling point.) This time, pretend to be at a 4th of July fireworks display. The guy who played your husband at the Thanksgiving debacle happened to get called back as well. Fondle his hair and do some on-camera canoodling to foster an immediate, imaginary sense of intimacy with the stranger. Thank “husband” for letting you manhandle him. Notice funny looks from his real life wife. Notice how very, very young the ad guys are.

Today: Wait for the phone to ring...

(*Ever since Gunderman pointed out that mentioning a product in ones blog can lead to ones blog being read by said company, I’ve decided to remain vague since I’d actually like to work again.)

Bitch, PLEASE!

I was about to say that I pity the fool who marries this woman, but who am I kidding? Start collecting those cats, lady.

Up on the wall! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's... Alisha?

For those who feel like verifying these things, apparently my gigantic, poster-sized face was spotted in a Texas Wal-Mart.

Next time you happen to be grocerying, I'd kill to see a picture of that. I assume it was in the drug aisle (since it's an ad for Prevacid).

If anybody spots it, give a holla. It's like "Where's Waldo?", only more gastro-intestinally distressed.

Gossipista!

As anonymous pointed out a few posts back, KATE AND CHRIS ARE KAPUT!

I actually didn't see this one coming. I don't know what's wrong with my radar these days. (They need a cute name for celeb gossip radar - something akin to "gaydar".) Their relationship made a hell of a lot more sense to me than Kurt and Goldie. Those two freak me out.

Next up: Julia and what's-his-name. Not that I wish that upon them. (I'm also hearing words about Chris and Gwyneth, but she's preggers again and I doubt he'll pull a Crudup.)

F.Y.I. Rumor has it Claire's knocked up.

R.I.P. Bill.

Remember my really old fish? The one that was clearly on his last fins, as it were? Well he's still alive and (barely) kicking. But the other one? The completely healthy, happy one that swam and played and loved me like crazy? Dead. Matt came home and he was all white and puffed up and then a couple of minutes later he was dead. No idea why.

It's ridiculous to feel sad about a dead fish. It's not like we'd grown incredibly close, but there's something about not being able to help him and wondering if he felt pain (I assume he felt some but I'd rather think I'm wrong) that makes me feel all funny inside. Man, when these cats go I'm gonna be a fucking mess.

On a lighter note, Williams-Sonoma Old English Caramel Cake? So not worth $24. (Although I'd like to find the cake mix that is.) It's okay at $3.99, but only okay. I also noticed that the Barefoot Contessa stuff that they've promoted the hell out of is already on sale. I don't think it's even been in the store a month.

I also want to do a quick shout-out to my husband. Not ONLY did he cover for me twice this week with Baby when I had auditions to run to (and he did a fine job diapering, I might add), not ONLY did he dispose of an ooky fish so I wouldn't have to look at it, no ONLY did he not scoff when I hauled home my latest "street find" (somebody was emptying out an apartment and threw away a perfectly cool 60's era coffee table! Do they have any idea what that shit would retail for?!), but he also cleaned the entire house over the weekend so I wouldn't have to spend my two days off doing housework. Can't beat that with a stick.

I'm off like a dirty shirt. (Screw Two and a Half Men. I miss Ducky.)

We didn't end up seeing "An Inconvenient Truth" because somebody was worried that it might be a downer. Instead we decided to watch a movie about marching penguins - which was a total downer, if you ask me. (No matter how you phrase it, Morgan Freeman, whether the penguins "disappeared into a field of white" or "went to sleep", I know you mean "dead".) Dead birds aside, the movie is fantastic, but watching them brave the brutal, gut-stabbing cold I couldn't help thinking about the poor fuckers who were filming the thing... (When it's 50 below BEFORE the wind chill? Mutherfuck!)

Speaking of harsh conditions, I read that they're filming "Into The Wild". It's a great book and I'm really curious, I just don't know if I can sit there and watch a guy starve to death while working my way through a bag of popcorn.

Quick THINGS ALISHA LOVES before I head out -

- Dr. Bronner's Pure Castille Soap

Yes, the bottle with all the crazy shit on it. Apparently when "Dr." Bronner died, his family wanted to make the packaging a little more subtle, a little less nutjob, but he put in his will that his soap bottle preaching had to stay put. (I see it as a bonus, frankly.) Regardless, the soap is great. It's totally non-toxic and environmentally-friendly (which is why every "going green" article I've read recommends it) and it works really well for general cleaning. I use it when I mop to make the house smell great (lavender). I also refill my empty liquid hand soap bottle with it (you'll have to wash a few seconds longer then you do with, say, Dial, but it smells way better and the bottle will last for months) and use it when I clean the litter box (if you choose the peppermint soap your cats will be thrilled).

A word of caution: While most people use Dr. Bronners on their body, I don't recommend using it on your lady parts. Particularly the peppermint. I'm not saying how I know that it's not a good idea... just take my word for it.

My inner Wintour is so displeased.

I've started doing that thing I swore I was never going to do. The thing that is the symbol of old biddies, cheap ass penny-pinchers and survivors of the depression world 'round. The thing that, when you were a child and saw this hanging from your grandma's kitchen faucet, you promised yourself right then and there you would never, ever, ever do.

That's right, friends. I am washing and reusing plastic Ziploc bags.

Oh I know how this makes me look. This soooo goes against my carefully crafted "Devil may care" attempt at urban sophistication. Hell, this goes against my hastily squelched, "Bobo's and strip malls" core of Midwestern pluck. But as someone who goes through Ziplocs with abandon, once I realized that drying them is totally easy and that they're totally reusable, I couldn't not do it. They're not biodegradable so I'm doing a small part to save the planet AND saving myself money! (Okay, dimes. I'm probably saving myself dimes. Whatevs.)

I'll still hide them if you come over though.

I'm gonna need popcorn to get me through this one.

So here’s a fun factoid for the day: Did you know that vanilla is a fruit? According to the handy little info panel on my soymilk, it is. The fruit of a particular kind of orchid, believe it or not.

Huh.

Fruits are not savory (nor are they vanilla flavored). “But Ali, tomatoes are a fruit! So are avocados, maybe!” BUZZ! Sorry – you’re wrong. Get those pesky scientists or biologists or whomever over here and I’ll give them a nice straightening out. Fruits taste like fruit. Otherwise they're vegetables, end of story.

I think the fella and I are going to see “An Inconvenient Truth” this weekend. It’s one of those movies I know I need to see and will probably ultimately enjoy (as much as anyone can enjoy a movie about global warming that doesn’t star Bruce Willis) but it feels a little like taking medicine. Medicine that costs $11 a person (not including the $8 nachos with extra “cheez” that someone insists on buying every time). Maybe there’ll be a blooper reel. (“We had the lens cap on when the polar ice caps melted! Hee-larious!”)

Not much to report from here. I sent a story off to Dramatics magazine. (The official magazine of the National Thespian Society. I’m not saying who, but somebody – we’ll call him “Mr. Cheez” – was President of his high school’s chapter.) I’m mulling over a second pitch but am stymied by the fact that I don’t actually know how to pitch. I know there are books and websites and such but it’s so much more time consuming than just asking someone to show me how to do it.

So, could someone show me how to do it? (I’m looking at you, Buff.)

In an attempt to get some activity on this site, let’s play a little game I like to call“Weekend Activities”! This is the game where we compare weekends and whoever has the least exciting weekend wins! (Wow, Ali! This is gonna be AWESOME!)

- Saturday: Farmers market! Paying a guy for a commercial class! Pretending that I’m just going to browse at the annual sale at my favorite prohibitively expensive clothing store! A $100 an hour voice-over lesson! Perhaps the gym! But probably not! Topped off by a very upsetting movie!

- Sunday: The gym! Because I didn’t go on Saturday! Cleaning the mold off my shower curtain! Changing the cat litter! Mopping/dusting/toilet bowl cleaning with hastily purchased, environmentally-friendly products!

Top that!

Musings

So Carmen and Dave split. Who didn't see that one coming from a mile away?

Next up: Jenny and Jim.

You know who's surprised me with their lack of divorce? Sarah Michelle Gellar and what's-his-name. Also Ryan and Reese. (Although that one's just a matter of time, I fear.)

Holla!

A quick shout-out to my homies at Edy's. Their new low-fat Slow Churned ice cream is awesome. I refuse to read the ingredients because I know it has all the crap in it that I insist I don't eat (partially hydrogenated oils, corn syrup) but duh-damn if it isn't tasty.

I also want to give a holla to the peeps at Horizon Organic for coming up with a yogurt container that is recyclable, and to the fellas over at Brown Cow yogurt and Stoneyfield Farm for acknowledging that their cartons are not. (But if you send them your clean, empty containers they'll reuse them. I'm down with that.)

I put this out to my peeps.

So here's a question. Say you're at an audition and you run into this guy you vaguely know from years past. He was someone who worked at the regional theater where you went to college and because you were an obnoxious self-promoter, you felt the need to engratiate yourself with every actor that came to town. (And no, "engratiate" is not code for "date".) When you first moved to New York you had coffee with him because you didn't know anyone and over the years you've run into him a handful of times at auditions. He's a nice enough guy so you're always perfectly happy to chat. But today you get an email from him. Perfectly nice email. "Good to run into you again", "I'd love to get together and catch up", "I'm often in Midtown, maybe we can get a drink". Normally you wouldn't think twice about it but boy, you sure wish he would clarify his definition of "drink". Are we talking "I know you're married and by the way, I have a spectacular girlfriend myself" drink? Or a "This is going to get real awkward real quick" drink? He's always seemed a little flirty and somewhat space-invasive (BUT NICE. Perfectly nice.) but maybe you're just being paranoid.

So how do you respond to the email?

Because who doesn't like it when I beat a dead horse?

Oh, you know it! It's time for this month's

THINGS ALISHA LOVES!

- Moleskine journals
They're affordable, simple and Picasso used 'em. That's good enough for me.

- Sufjan Stevens' "Come On! Feel The Illinoise!"
Firstly, there's the title (which sends me). Second, anyone who can write a song about John Wayne Gacy that's both serious and goddam beautiful gets my vote.

- Pilot G2 pens
I'm still stuck on them. They're particularly great in conjunction with the moleskine journals.

- The blooper reel from "Talladega Nights"
Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly cracking each other up over the end credits. Almost better than the movie.

- Sasha Baron Cohen
I'm a little scared about the Borat movie that's coming out. I love Ali G and I think Sasha's borderline genius at times, but the Borat character makes me really, really uncomfortable. I might have to watch the movie from behind my hands, that's all I'm saying. I also think he's very handsome in real life, he's got a super British accent and he went to Oxford or Cambridge or someplace impressive.

- Air conditioning

He's not dead yet!

I'm afraid that Salty Joe is on his last legs (as it were). We suspected he was an old timer, but lately he seems like he's heading toward the great rice paddy in the sky. (I think that's where he lived before he was snatched up and shipped off to whichever godforsaken pet supply store his previous owner found him in.) He doesn't swim or puff up or grump out in any way. He just lays on the rocks on the bottom of the tank, all tilty and listless. He can barely swim to the top to get his food and even when he makes it, he just eats a piece or two then floats back down to the rocks, all exhausted-like.

I've never really had a fish (that's not technically true. I had a fish for a few weeks that I had to leave with some friends while I was on tour and when I came home, Cleo was a goner. I'm not naming names or pointing fingers but Gunderman - watch the missus) but what I'm trying to say is that I always assumed that fish just died. One day they're swimming in circles, next minute, belly up. None of this slowly getting weaker, refusing food, bringing up painful memories stuff.

This development has rendered Matt and I officially ridiculous.

We've done research to see if he's sick, we've easily spent $50 on various fish medicines, we've put his coral reef in the tank, we've taken his coral reef out of the tank, we've coaxed, we've cooed, we've done everything we can think of to make this fish feel better. (Matt's currently in the bathroom lowering the water level in Joe's tank to make it easier for his to swim to the top.) All for a $3.00 fish.

While I am a notorious softy (I don't care how withered and pathetic my plants look, if they're still technically alive I find it neigh on impossible to throw them away), I defy you to watch something dying right in front of and not try to help. (Not that we're necessarily helping, mind you. Half the time we're probably terrifying the poor fella.)

I'll keep you abreast of the situation. Think good thoughts for Joe. He isn't a kindly fish, but he has spunk.

And catsit.

Bargain of the Day:

Old English Caramel Cake Kit from Williams-Sonoma

Regular price: $24.00 (which somehow seems okay when you're all wrapped up in that fancy-pants, free samply, pretty-pretty Williams-Sonoma vibe and want something special for dessert. Until you get home and realize you've just spent $24 for cake mix, that is.)

Sale price: $3.99

Which could lead me into a gigantic, hyperbolic diatribe on the insane markups at the Big Boy chains and "how dare they" and "who do they think they are" and such, but I have to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond and buy a new shower curtain.

(Yes, I checked the expiration date. It's good 'till November.)

Help me, Obi Wan Kenobis. You're my only hope.

Here’s the thing - my husband quits his job and I suddenly feel the need to spend large amounts of money. To whit:

- $400 for a new TV (if you’re only going to buy a TV once every ten years, might as well make it a flat screen!)
- $135 for the dentist (a necessary evil)
- $1500 for gym memberships (that’s after our Manhattan Plaza discounts)
- $495 for a commercial class (to update my skills and shamelessly network with the casting director who’s teaching it)
- $100 every other week for voiceover classes (see above)
- $35 for gigantic box of Seventh Generation toilet paper from the newly launched Amazon.com grocery (46 rolls, peeps! We won’t have to buy TP for, like, six months! Did I mention free shipping?)

I’m sure there’s more (I’m ignoring my Banana Republic sprees) but you get my drift. Granted, some of these expenditures were necessary (the dentist, TP) and some can be written off (the dentist, my classes, perhaps even the TV for, ahem, “research”), but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re forking out cash hand over fist, whatever the hell that means.

That said, help me convince Matt that I need to get my teeth bleached.

I hate the color of my teeth. They’re yellowy and… yellowy and although it’s not as noticeable in natural light, on film (and in photos) it’s pretty pronounced. I’ve tried the White Strips and stupid toothpastes but because my front teeth are bonded, all they do is make the surrounding teeth lighter which equals hours of talk-downs of the “It doesn’t look that bad” variety. Frankly, I’m done. I want pretty teeth. I’m not talking veneers – we all know how I feel about celebrities and their Damon-esque choppers – just something a little brighter. I discussed it with my student dentist yesterday and she has it all planned out: Remove the bonding (which I have to do because it’s chipping anyway), bleach my teeth to a whiter but still completely believable shade and then, if necessary, replace the bonding. Over the years I’ve comparison shopped and bonding alone ranges from $250 - $400 a tooth. Bleaching runs about a grand. At NYU Dental, they charge $300 for full-mouth bleaching. If I want a home bleaching kit (should I decide I need to re-bleach down the road) it’s another $100, and if they have to replace the bonding it’s a mere $65 a tooth. While I realize this laundry list of costs interests exactly nobody, I’m trying to point out the SPECTACULAR SAVINGS. I mean with everything, we’re looking at roughly 500 clams. (I know, I know.) I discussed this with Matt last night and while he didn’t laugh out loud, I could tell he wasn’t exactly convinced. I even tried the ol’ “maybe we can write it off as a business expense” technique but he pointed out that boob jobs aren’t tax deductible, so chances are my teeth won’t be either. (Dammit.) I also realize that if I do get my way (I mean, “once the understands the importance”) I will be forced to spend the rest of my life forgoing red wine and drinking coffee from a straw (if I’m spending $500 on these fuckers, I ain’t messing them up) but that’s a price I’m willing to pay. Don’t get me wrong, squirrelly teeth can be oddly sexy (see ROTH, TIM) but yellow teeth? Never.

So whatdya say? I’ve got some convincing arguers here (Boyer, Virgil, Gunderman – I’m talking to you) and plenty of people with pull (family members, fellow geeks – that’s your cue). Help a lady out. Let’s work together to make my mouth a better place.

And how'd they get through the woods in a covered wagon?

I was reading an article in the NY Times about how healthy and hearty we are compared to our pioneering ancestors. Back in the day, a "hearty" man was roughly 5'7", 150 lbs - and dead by 50. Not dead because he was shot or eaten by a bear (although I'm sure several were) - dead because life was so rough their bodies simply gave out.

That shit fascinates me.

I've never tried to hide my love for those Laura Ingalls Wilder books (I had a rather rich fantasy life involving Almanzo Wilder. Of course it was the blond Melissa Gilbert era "Manly", versus the rather grim and significantly less attractive "real life" Almonzo whose picture I discovered later. For some reason we were always riding a ferris wheel...) You know the number one cause of death listed on death certificates for women in those days? "Exhaustion". Now I've been tired before. After a 13 hour catering stint I may have even, in a pique of disgruntled grumptasticy, used the term "exhausted" to describe my weak and whiny state. But I sure as hell never died from it. And yes, I'm sure they probably officially died from something else but the fact that exhaustion could even be considered a cause of death blows my mind.

There was another statistic that said that 1 out of 6 were rejected from the Civil War army on the grounds of being too ill or weak. This was not a picky army, peeps. Being unable to hold your urine was not grounds for disqualification. Being blind in one eye was not grounds for disqualification. (Unless you happened to be blind in the right eye - your musket eye. Then you were out. But blind in your left? No prob.)

I was at NYU dental yesterday getting a few fillings done by a (gulp) student dentist and had a small, infinitesimal taste of what it must have been like back in the day. (Okay, truth be told my student dentist was fantastic. I highly recommend for those without dental insurance in the tri-state area.) Point being, it had to suuuuck. And here's a question for the moms (or history buffs) in the hizzouse: Laura gave birth to a baby while unconscious. They just chlorophormed the hell out of her when the contractions started and when she woke up - baby! Now how did they get that baby out without her pushing? Foreceps? And why can't we bring that technique back? (The knocking out, not the foreceps.)

Enough of all this. I'm off to my chiropractor to keep my back in check. If only my pioneering sisters had had access to Dr. Cinelli...

Chocolate milk or white?

I was reading an article from Newsweek this morning (not having a TV will do that) about these new school lunch cards. I didn't get to read the entire thing because one of the cats decided that she hated Newsweek and ripped the mag to shreds but from what I could decipher, certain foods - the non-nutritional kind - cost more than, say, corn. And if parents don't want their kids eating ice cream sandwiches instead of spaghetti, they can set it up so the card won't purchase it.

Am I way too adult? I don't think this idea is half bad. Granted, I've turned into a bit of a nutrition Nazi in my old age but I'm somewhat appalled when I think back on my pubescent eating habits. Kool Aid, fried bologna, sugar cereal daily. How did I make it through the day? (You did the best you could, mom.) Anything that will get kids eating better, I'm all for. On the other hand, remember the food in the caf? The green beans? The smell of oversalted, overcooked everything mixed with the scent of vomit, gym class and bleach? Gah. I'm packing my kids lunch, that's for damn sure. And screw trading - I'll just put stuff in that other kids won't eat. Edamame! Tofu dogs! All-natural almond butter! Pray my kid's not allergic to nuts like every other kid on the planet seems to be. What's up with that, anyway? NO kid was allergic to peanut butter when I was growing up. (Although one kid did suck his thumb until fourth grade...)

Anyway, school lunch card. Good Idea or Big Brother? (Or rather, Big Mother.)

114 heat index today, kids. Con-Ed is anticipating a black out. The thought makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

It's getting hot in heeere.

Firstly, my favorite part of the Mel Gibson DRUNKY-DRUNKY-DRUNK-DRUNK debacle was definitely the part when he called the female sargeant "sugar tits". You just know that woman phoned up every friend she has in the world. ("Girl, Mel Gibson just called me 'sugar tits'!") Hell, if it was me I'd snatch that video and give it out as Christmas presents. (I'd just make sure not to give it to any of my warmongering Jewish friends.)

Second, I got caught up on some television watching last night at Baby's house and got to see Hugh ("Sugar Tits") Laurie on Inside the Actor's Studio. Ladies, I have a sneaking suspicion that Dr. House wears a toupe.

Third, it's supposed to be 105 tomorrow with a heat index of 114.

That's just mean.

I would never have allowed Allison to be voted off "So You Think You Can Dance"...

I go away and what happens? Our TV shuts down. Funny enough, I don't really miss the thing. (Until I remember that I'm missing what might be the most exciting! season! ever! on Project Runway, that is.)

It's weird to shop for a TV. It's not something you think of buying, you know? It's just always there. Since we don't have a car, we can't exactly head down to Best Buy and haul the thing home, so we ended up buying it off the internet. Now I'm a seasoned internet shopper, but buying a TV felt a little extreme. And expensive.

And... yup, that's it.