On the Street Where You Live

As I bide my time, waiting to make my fame and fortune as a hand model or Taiwanese interpreter, I periodically have the distinct pleasure of working as an office assistant at a doctor’s office (a direct result of the 5 minutes I thought medical school sounded like a swell idea). This puts me on the front lines and, periodically, requires me to filter the “crazy,” if you will: crazy requests, crazy situations, and, yes, even sometimes, crazy people. There are, of course, varying levels of crazy and, in all fairness, perhaps I’m the crazy one.

The other day, I was tasked with scheduling a new patient. No big deal. Do it all the time. Except, this time what we had was most definitely a failure to communicate. I asked the patient for her address so that we could mail out the new-patient paperwork.

I said, “What’s your address?”

She said, “My doctor referred me.”

I said, “Right, but what’s your address?”

She paused and then said, “For my heart.”

I said (now speaking louder in an effort to be understood, although volume clearly wasn’t the issue), “Okay, but where do you live? I need your address.”

She paused for a second. Then, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Me: “Do you get mail at your house?”

Her: “Yes.”

Me: “Where do they send it?”

Her, as it dawned early light: “Oh, my address!”

True story.

So who’s the crazy one here?

You decide.  

The Royal Dog & Pony Show: "Commoner" Edition

Hello, Internet!  It's time for my first post.  Many, many thanks to my dear, dear friend R for keeping this up while I finished up some loose ends.  And many, many thanks to R for brining to my attention the twin travesties hitting the gossip mags this week.  

Travesty numéro un

All I have to say is: WHY, WHY, WHY is the even less hot (and it pains me to admit that) sister now famous?  She looks even older than her sister.  The only fresh-faced good looking one in the family is Brother Middleton and he has a high voice.   And likes to wear women's clothes (allegedly).  When will that story break?  Because I  WILL BUY THAT MAGAZINE. 

But wait, dear readers, there is more... 

Travesty numéro deux

After I nearly vomited in my own mouth, I thought about the (alleged)  "you're next" comment.  And if I know two things about men, they will say anything when:

1.  They are drunk (fact)

2.  The possibility of sex tricks loom large (double fact)

And we know both of those things were present that night.  Also, we need to consider the possibility that the Orange One's carrot-like hue has one of two effects on the Ginger Prince:  either he's hypnotized by her glow in the dark color or he's being poisoned by chemical leaching from her fake tanner.  

I think this may be a real possibility. 

And just because it's my maiden post, please take a little trip to the early morning inner workings of my mind...

I wonder how committed the Orange One is to her fake tanner (read: are her lady bits also orange or are they blindlingly white)?  I hope that when she and Ginge break up that she entertains someone else who leaks the pictures.  Inquiring minds MUST know!

Boyfriend of the Week

This week’s boyfriend is the multi-talented and aesthetically pleasing Will Estes (Nipper). He’s a Los Angeles native - a rarity in the City of Angels, it seems - and, allegedly, also a vegetarian gymnast who has studied Jiu Jitsu.

You may recognize this boyfriend from his memorable turns in fine films and television such as U-571, Boy Meets World, the not-so-classic, Terror Tract (which, quite frankly, almost lost him his Boyfriend spot), and who could forget his starring role in Bon Jovi’s video for It’s My Life? He’s also a featured player on the best new-ish show you may or may not be watching, CBS’s Blue Bloods. Blue Bloods (which, incidentally, apparently sounds similar to True Blood when on the phone, a show this author has never seen and therefore can’t endorse) follows the Reagan family, a family of New York City cops headed by patriarch Tom Selleck. The best part (besides Willie, of course), is – wait for it – DONNIE WAHLBERG! Oh, yes, Mark Wahlberg’s older bro is a surprisingly good actor, and a nice memory-lane walk for you New Kids On the Block fans (which this author does endorse).

So get out your scrunchies, dust off your slap bracelets, and hang tough with the adorable Will Estes.

Satisfaction guaranteed.

Second Season Curse?

As an admitted reality TV addict, for which there is apparently no 12-step program (at least that’s what the guy at the AA meeting told me when I tried to crash it), I watch a lot of fame-hungry people engage in a lot of questionable, yet highly entertaining, behavior.

One of my favorite train wrecks is the Real Housewives series on Bravo (I’ll pause while you judge me), which follows different groups of “ladies” from areas around the country who are, ironically, neither real nor housewives. Unfortunately, many of these women ruin my enjoyable viewing experience by falling prey to the “Second Season Curse.” 

The curse hits when the women make the mistake of reading their own positive press, and come to the second season with egos too big to fit through the door of their bank-owned homes. Many, many Housewives are victims of said curse, bringing a diva attitude and over-the-top drama, in an effort to increase their camera time. And the latest Housewife to have fallen victim is, apparently, Sonja Tremont-Morgan of New York City.

As her name implies, she was once married to a much-older Morgan heir, whom I’m sure she married solely for love. Now, however, she’s a divorced mother of one, living on the Upper East Side or West Side or some side of Manhattan, in a townhome she can’t afford, that sports its very own elevator (which she also can't afford).

If you’re familiar with the series, you know that last season Sonja was the voice of reason among the women (although, in all fairness, it doesn’t take much to sound reasonable among this bunch; “Satchels of gold” anyone?). But this season, it seems she may have finally drunk from the crazy Kool-Aid. It was inevitable, I suppose. She’s done a lot of ridiculous stuff, but the icing on the cake was this past week when she showed up to her own costume party missing half her costume. She mingled, she schmoozed, and then she said, (paraphrasing) “Oh my, I’ve forgotten my petticoat” and then conveniently bent over to show just how much petticoat she’d forgotten. 

 

She claimed the wardrobe malfunction was just a giant brain fart, but, speaking as someone who’s admittedly never forgotten an essential undergarment, but who still thinks she would realize her bottom half was missing, wouldn’t you feel a little breeze? Wouldn’t you, at some point, realize your hindquarters were sticking to the car’s seat or the dining-room chair or something?! The only reasonable answer is yes, which means, she was either too drunk to notice or is just that desperate for attention (i.e. camera time). I’d bet it’s most likely what’s behind door #2, but either way, it’s pretty sad.

Hopefully for Sonja, her third season – if she gets one – will re-find her charm.

Black Swan Dive

Hollywood and its award-giving agencies have proven once again that they’re all smoking collectively from the same mind-altering—or perhaps more appropriately, talent-altering—substance. I was always fairly certain of this fact, but it became even more painfully obvious after finally seeing Black Swan last night. What a waste of time. And Natalie Portman winning an Oscar? Was it an April Fool’s joke? She always looks slightly confused and like she’s just caught a sniff of something rancid. FYI, Natalie, that smell, yeah, that’s the stench of your poor acting.

Here’s the plot of Black Swan:

(Caution: spoilers may follow; although, if reading the following discourages even one person from watching this drivel, then I’ve done my duty.)

Natalie Portman (or her body double) dances. The ballet’s director yells at her for not being good enough. She cries. There’s a gratuitous sex scene (thank goodness for fast-forward). Her mom does something creepy and inappropriately overbearing. Natalie Portman has a freak out. She cries some more, while looking confused and like she’s smelled something rancid. Rinse. Repeat.

So. Pointless.

And, Mila Kunis? Why all the praise for her performance? She has about five lines. Overall, I found the movie to be a complete waste of time and Natalie Portman to be a complete waste of space. Fortunately for her, Hollywood worships huge wastes of space, so she can look forward to a long career full of countless accolades and worthless performances—proving yet again that it’s not who you know, but who you’re willing to sleep with.