Why I want to be BFF with Nina Sayers AKA The Swan Queen, and so should you!

We all know that the world of Ballet is competitive (and often times malnourished). If movies like "Center Stage" have taught us anything, it's that ballerinas' lives consist of 30% bulimia, 40% unrequited love, 20% dealing with parental landmines, and 10% dancing. 

The drama. The hook-ups. The bloody toes and retirement at the age of 28. I am obsessed and fascinated by this world, and I for one think the participants would make wonderful friends. I think one deranged dancer in particular would make a particularly wonderful chum. Remember Nina from "Black Swan? Chick would be devoted as hell. Here's why:
                                                      1. Undying (until she dies) loyalty

Think about it. If she was THAT dedicated to ballet, how dedicated would she be to your friendship?? If her track record with dance is any indicator, I'd wager she'd be the kind of pal who would always be there. Always. Sure, maybe hidden in your closet or under your bed, but still, THERE when you really needed her. Or needed to get smothered with your own pillow. Bet she'd be all over that.
 

2. She could teach you Ballet

Come on. The girl has some skill. Especially after she loosened up after some very weird Mila Kunis hallucinations that will not be discussed. She floats with the grace of 1,000 crazy angels, and she could teach you. Oh she could teach you. Unless you mess up and she is then forced to saw off your feet and eat them. I'd remember to point my toes if I were you.


         
3. You'd look SO normal

Yes, we all have days where we feel as insane as that bag lady muttering about the end of days while she eats live pigeons and Taco Bell wrappers. That's normal, I think. But if you were friends with Nina, you could leave the house covered in glitter and lemon curd while singing calypso, and you would look. so. sane. And yes, I think lemon curd would make stellar moisturizer. 


4. She taught you life's greatest lesson

It's this: If you really love something, kill yourself for it. Nina loved ballet. More than her mother, her alter ego, and her hallucinations of Mila. And when her white swan character was supposed to die, Nina really DIED. I mean, I've heard of method acting, but she took this to a whole new level. Ya hear that, small child who yearns to one day become an astronaut? Go jump off a bridge in the name of NASA, and make all your dreams come true.

I'm just gonna go be a Killer Whale

That's it. I'm done. Job search over. Where's the towel? It's thrown in. So now what?

Will I cop-out in any of the usual ways you ask? Join the Russian Circus? Marry a wealthy 80 year old investment banker? Move to New York under the pretense of becoming a method actress only to nab a job at Hooters and five roommates in a two bedroom apartment? Go to beauty school, drop out, develop a nasty meth habit and a cardboard box address on 6th and Madison with shoebox throw pillows?

Negatory.

I want to be a Killer Whale. Sure, you say it's impossible, but my mom and pop, and my old friend Mr Rogers said I could be anything dammit. And that's my choice. I think it's a fine one. And I think I'd be a great fit.

First off, I love team work, and I love being part of big family gatherings. So hunting parties? I got this. My veganish taste buds could totally develop a love for raw seal meat. Cute, chipper, innocent seal meat. 

Small price to pay really when you get to call a pod of Killer Whales family. The underwater version of "The Waltons",  Orcas hang out fo' life. As loyal as Lassie before the rabies, they have each others' backs, er, fins. You get plastic six-pack rings stuck on you? They'll find a way to get them off. You get stuck on a beach? They are not going to come get you since that's certain death, but they'll hang around off shore and "eeeeeeeek" out some encouragements.

You don't see that with people these days. Pretty sure if I got plastic trash stuck on my nose I'd get ridiculed, not rescued. Clearly I hang with the wrong species.

Secondly, I love the ocean. Seriously, love it, like most people. But I bet your bottom dollar the goal of those other people is to live NEAR the briny deep. I'd get to live IN IT. Who's laughing now? Huh? While you're watching from shore as I majestically leap into the air and dive down for however long Killer Whales can hold their breath and get to whine out weird sonar, know how you'll be feeling? Jealous, that's what.

Thirdly, come on every girl and gay guy child of the 90s. You still love Jesse from "Free Willy". I know I do. Snarky. Sandy wavy hair. Those hideous oversized sweaters. The fact that this kid could run around a coastal town and hijack boats and FREE WHALES HE'S BEFRIENDED with no parental supervision....that's everything on my ideal male checklist. And I could BE that whale he becomes BFF with. AND I could eat that doe-eyed chick with the bad cut-offs he's into, and blame it on sheer instinct. "Ooops did I eat her? Jeesh THAT'S embarrassing. I don't even LIKE scrawny, needy, stringy haired chicks. Sorry. Want me to make it up to you by leaping over you standing on a rock as you point upwards dramatically? Great."

Lastly, cards on the table. I am a messy eater. TERRIBLE. When I'm through with a meal, it looks like the aftermath caused by a mini table twister. There is carnage. And so many crumbs. Eating with me is like sitting down across from a hulking denture-wearing Hungarian at a liverwurst eating contest, only I'm messier. On land, this is sometimes problematic. In the sea....EVERYTHING FLOATS. I'd never drop ANY FOOD. I'd look like a classy lady all the time. Life complete.

So basically, this is happening. My farewell party will be next week at the aquarium. Please bring lots of Tuna and it's been nice knowing you, landlubbers. 

Reasons why I want to hate Ina Garten....and one why I can't

Howdy. I'm the Barefoot Contessa

If you're anything like me, and you like to bombard yourself with pictures of domestic bliss you will never attain, you probably all know this woman. If not, she has a cooking show, try to keep up. And here are the reasons I really want to hate her:

1."Barefoot" MY foot

Yeaaaa right. Have you SEEN that kitchen?? Have you SEEN those trips she and her mysterious husband take?? The woman clearly owns shoes. They are probably $8 million. The tragic thing is, if we take any kind of hint from her hairstyle and ill-fitting blouses, they are probably ghastly. Like super expensive custom made clogs. Or platform flip-flops made out of 14K gold.

2. "Back to Basics"?

(This plays every episode after the intro, and every time I have to wonder which editor let that slide.)

Let's just re-create a scene really quickly and you'll see what I mean:

*Ina walks in placing her custom made bamboo fishing rod in the sterling silver umbrella holder*

"Oh, hello again. Today we'll be making homemade basil-pesto salmon puffs with a horseradish tarter sauce. Here's my handsome fish I just caught 5 minutes ago."

*Holds up fish carcass*

"Now, if you must catch it the night before, that's alright; it'll give you more time to whittle some mixing spoons and construct your own fishing smoker. I have mine all set up here. In you go Sir Salmon.

*She plops in the salmon who is magically cleaned*

"Now I've received numerous inquiries about using fresh herbs over dried. My answer to this, is that if you want to make easy, putrid food to be used as compost or to be thrown at others in ridicule, then by all mean use dried. If you want to make something delicious and edible so your absent spouse will look at you, then fresh is the only way to go.

Also, there have been many speculations about the fact that  I barely seem married, and that my husband rarely appears on camera. I would just like to assure everyone that he is simply a busy economist and is in no way connected to the French-Canadian mob. And the French-Canadians' one legacy Celine Dion is not being held for ransom in our basement  on a diet of my garlic herb bread and seltzer. No. And that yacht was a gift."

*Starts putting on wellies*

"Now to gather long-grain rice from your rice paddy for a pilaf...."

3. "Friends"

For as irritating as this woman is, she's more popular than a rooster in a henhouse. Seriously, why? She makes a Martha Stewart recipe look like a cop-out Lean Cuisine, and her Dutch Boy haircut doesn't disguise the fact that she doesn't possess a chin. She says things like "Chicken Salad Veronique" and "Zucchini Vichyssoise" with a straight face. She'd make Julia Child feel inadequate. All in all, I'd rather rub my arm with a cheese grater for an hour than be in the same room with this woman. I can only assume all her "friends" are highly paid and intimidated into silence by Ina's skills with a paring knife.

4. "She and her husband split their time between their homes in New York, The Hamptons, and Paris"

....Of course they do.

All these are reasons are enough to truly despise a person. And I desperately want to. But I can't....because....

I want to eat her food. I long to taste the zing of Chipotle Roasted Nuts. I want the playful flavors of Smoked Salmon Spread and Cucumber Tartine to tango upon my tongue. I want to live in her perfect pan-seared world. I want to rarely be around her and still reap the flavorful benefits.

I want to marry Ina Garten. 

Guys, grow up, grow a pair, or go home.

Ok. Here it is. Let's get real for a second. Like real Prada and not the fancy knock-offs that fell off the back of the truck and are now being sold half-price by the urine-soaked homeless. No we're talking real, authentic, designer handbags the prices of which could buy me food for a year.

Calm down. This isn't a political or ethical rant. But it is a rant. Here goes:

Men of the world: I'm gonna need you to stop.

I have this friend.....I know people say that, but really, this time I really do have a friend. And something happened to her recently. And it's happened to her and many other friends, many times. And it needs. to. end.

Now, I know we've all done things in or out of relationships involving members of the opposite sex (or same, go Massachusetts!) that we are not proud of. I myself have made many mistakes. Too needy, too clingy, too abrupt, too aloof, I mean, the list goes on and on. I've probably hurt people I haven't meant to hurt, and been hurt myself. Really most days it seems like dating is one big circle of hurt. Like a Curves circuit. Crap.

I'm sorry, I know they're "smiling" and "happy" but that just looks excruciating. 

I digress. So my friend. She's awesome. Like a female Randy from "Say Yes to the Dress". She's sassy, and fun, and she'll tell it like it is. That dress makes you look fat? She'll tell ya you look like a cow dressed up for a cheese commercial. But in a super nice way. She's gorgeous and really just great. Boys seem to like her. I mean, they really like her....at first. Then, suddenly, soooo suddenly, seriously, like less time than it takes for Nicholas Sparks' main characters who used to hate each other to magically fall in love, they drop off the face of the earth. True, perhaps she and these boys weren't in an "official" relationship, but let's examine the evidence:

A) They tell her she's "glowing". Which, yes, could be an alert to a severe reaction to radiation exposure, but I'm thinking it was complimentary.

B) They call her just to "chat". All the time. From all the men I know and have talked to, this phenomenon is about as common as managing to watch a show without seeing one of those damn ASPCA ads during breaks.....I'm saying it's rare. Which I've been told means a guy digs ya.

C) They kiss. Now I know we're all not Amish, and for most of us this isn't as big a deal as it used to be. But  come on. It's not THAT casual yet. Like, I don't walk up to my Starbucks barista and go to town on his mouth because he made me a bomb Earl Grey Latte...I might want to but I control myself. 

The defense rests.

And sure, sometimes it happens. You just don't jive with someone, so you digitally free them from your phone contacts and skip on your merry way. I am a huge employer of the Houdini act. But for men I didn't MEAN to meet. Let me take you back, to a little town I like to call Chicago, 2010. The Blackhawks had just won the Stanley cup. I had won the attentions of this guy, we'll call him *Ben.

*I call him Ben because we met at a celebration at a bar and I have no idea what his name actually is. Also I know what you're thinking, but this was a G encounter. The only one night stand this chica enters into is with pans full of brownies. So much eating at night....so much morning shame at the edible carnage. But that's another story.*

Anyway, I met Ben. And from the moment we met, twas understood that ours was a love forged in the consumption of $4 Long Islands and flamed by the confused, misplaced, fair-weather (on my end) excitement over the win of a Chicago sports team. And like all Chicago athletic legacies, of course it didn't last.

And in a few weeks when he called me to hang out I was perplexed. Not only because he was saved as "Fedora Guy" (his choice of head-wear was apparently more memorable than his name) in the outer recesses of my phone, but because I had always known that our affair was based upon pretentious discussions about Joshua Radin and Percy Shelley, and was doomed to be as brief and fleeting as Patrick Kane's attention span. So I never called back. And that was that. No harm. No foul. Because on some level we both knew. Jeeze, I'm really hitting it out of the park with these sports references tonight. Go team.

No, but it was fine. Because we talked for three seconds one night. We didn't know each other. 

But you boys out there. You know the girls you string along but never call. Why? Cause guess what, I've been on the other end a time or two. And really, we just want to know. Give it to us straight. I promise we won't explode, or god forbid, cry at you. We won't go postal or threaten to jump off a bridge. You're not that great, and we have uteri (is that the plural? ew), not personality disorders. Contrary to popular thought, our ovaries do not make us psychotic. 

So calm down. We're big girls, and we're stronger than we look, mostly because of jerks like you. WE and our uteri (*shudder*; I can't believe that's the plural) will be FINE. You, well? We don't care.

And you. You boy out there. You made sure you got to know my friend. And you had an understanding. And then you chose to cut and run, despite that understanding. And that is why, young lad, if I ever find you, I will strangle you with your large and small intestines, until you  beg for death, provided the removal of said intestines, doesn't kill you initially. Either way. It's gonna suck for you. 

So, men of the world. Stop with the games. Stop with the lies and the evasions. Enough. We can take whatever you can throw at us and then some. Because if you do decide that you want to stay with us, well, ok I guess. But if you are an idiot and ditch us we get to eat ice cream and watch Titanic on loop for a few weeks. So either way. We win.

What I Would Like to Tell this Cold I Feel Brewing in My Body Like the Perfect Storm

If you're from the Midwest, or have ever lived here for longer than one season, then you'll understand when I refer to the extreme and inconstant weather patterns that often accompany every seasonal transition.

 During this particular time of year, like a shark closing in upon a bloody seal, Fall is fast approaching. My favorite season, I am already shaking out sweaters, awaiting pumpkins and corn mazes, and the days when humidity doesn't drown my will to live...

 But there is a price for this plaid-clad, cider infused, magical time. I'm sneezing at YOU, fall cold. As every spectator who looks upon Courtney Love's red carpet ensemble disasters, but is powerless set them aflame, so too am I unable to stop this bacterial onslaught on my poor, innocent immune system.

 It always starts with a cough. A little back of the throat tickle, if you will. Disguised in its traitorous Trojan horse of friendship, the virus drives into my lungs. The hacking begins. I try to rationalize it away; grind of stuck pepper perhaps? Emphysema? Maybe anthrax? Because let's be real; ANYTHING else would be better than what is about to happen. And anything includes chronic degenerative diseases and airborne pathogens. Because, if you haven't guessed by now, I'm getting a cold.

My wellness tea? Bambi against a legion of rapid, red-eyed wolves. Airborne? Futile, like an attempt to car dance to NPR. Plenty of fluids? Maybe, but I find eight glasses of water burden enough thank you very much. Next? Nose blockage/running. This part of the assault is more powerful than Lindsey Lohan's compulsion to cause hit and runs. And I am afraid.

 As the nose phase hits, just as my voice begins to disappear, I am powerless. I am only able to speak as if I used my throat as a blender for gravel, and envision the hell that awaits me come nightfall. All I can imagine is that moment as I try to sleep and my nose is blocked up by an impenetrable disgusting force that, like this horrific song, refuses to loosen its clammy, chapped grip. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbNlMtqrYS0

 This is the ordeal I face. And as I prepare to stare the sleep-depriving, cough-inducing monster in its yellow beady eyes, I have just this to say...to my cold:

 I don't appreciate you. Sure, I might not take a vitamin, but I will not be badgered into taking a horse-pill that has an aftertaste like mud and makes me want to hurl half the time. And I might not get 8 hours a night due to a love of late night info-merrcials, but you can't tell me that I'm the only one who finds them enchanting (I'm looking at you Billy Banks and Richard Simmons; where my boys at?)  The bottom line is, NO cold. You will not control me. You shall not define me. I shall not fear you, shall not fear the terror of the  gag reflex nor the snot that flies by day. And you may take my lung function, my voice, and  the ability to breathe through my nose, but you will never take my hour learning about the benefits of the forearm forklift

or pajama jeans!

Things Brad Pitt's Various Hairstyles Have Taught Me About Life

Known the world over as a supremely sexy being, like a cockroach after nuclear holocost, Brad Pitt's face has endured the test of time....(except for now, am I right? These days he's lookin a bit rough. It's probably that blood and puppy tears regimen Angie has him following).

So I thought it'd be a swell time if we took a look back at the Bradster and reminisced (judged) his evolution and provided some commentary (insults). Come with me friends. Come with me down the Pitt highway, littered with old highlight color containers and completely void of old deodorant sticks since apparently the Jolie-Pitts are against it. Sticking butt fat into your lips however is apparently perfectly permissible and natural. Anywaysssss....

-Ahhh yes. The floppiness. The scruffyness. The tucked in shirt with the belt buckle. This picture is positively screaming youthful exuberance and a cocky confidence that can only be held in that bizarre and often zit-filled time known as adolescence. We don't see any of Satan's white-tipped mountains chaining young Bradley's face though, do we? Nay. For this photo not only begs the question, "My choice of ear decoration clearly indicates I like pirates, but do I love Jesus ironically in a foreshadowed nod to some Whole Foods loving hipster successors, or am I genuine in my choice of clothing and accessories? You'll never know as my mischievous smirk and Smeagol crouch make me both appealing and untrustworthy. Bahaha I giggle at your quandary adoring fans!". No no this photo also says what every Neutrogena sponsor happily yells at you; it says, "Go wash your face, and maybe one day, you too can flop your hair over to the right and be in a movie with Susan Sarandon...and maybe you'll even get to drive off the cliff."

-The early 90s. The tops were shorter, Tonya Harding was beating down the competition, and Norway spurned the E.U. "Speed" and "Four Weddings and a Funeral" had just come out, and people were afraid. Afraid that they were doomed evermore to watch bumbling protagonists with hair that flopped NOT in a B.P. kind of way; protagonists who filmed entire action movies on buses and blinked a lot at Sandra Bullock who could not drive. Protagonists with thick rimmed glasses who continually looked like an idiot in front of Andie McDowell, like ALL the time, and always played the same charming polite British guy but secretly picked up prostitutes. People needed a hero. Someone to inspire them to blaze their own trail. A rebel. A rebel who said, "I'm gonna be in a movie about not belonging, with a really deep and unrelated title like "Legends of the Fall". It'll be a period piece, beautifully filmed in Canada, but you'll think it's Montana; CAUSE WE CAN. I'm gonna break stallions, have a socially unacceptable marriage, and wrestle bears because I JUST DON'T GIVE A DAMN. I'll drive the only woman I've ever loved to suicide and I'll enjoy doing it because LOOK HOW LONG MY HAIR IS. Sure, maybe I just didn't want to cut it after "Interview with a Vampire", but mostly it's to ensure that in my next role I get to beat up a bartender and then vengefully massacre some Irish bootleggers...why?...because my hair can be put in a flipping PONYTAIL that's why. Go be who you need to BE world. Because my lucsious full-bodied hair COMMANDS it."

-Peroxide will murder everything you love.

-And now, we come to some more recent events. So many questions. Why can we no longer understand your movies? Why are they all 12 hours long? What's it like to be Benicio Del Toro? Do you even know what you're doing? Your hand gestures suggest you would like someone to come up to you and explain A) what "The Tree of Life" was about and B) why you felt the need to pour bacon grease on your head and then "style" it. The one sad and sorry lesson in this photo, folks, is that anyone, ANYONE, can become a cautionary tale. Just ask Brad's forlorn and forgotten piece of chin-hugging facial hair. He'll tell ya. Tell ya all about the glory days when Jennifer Aniston kept him in a healthy supply of "Just For Men Gel" and fine-toothed combs. Now it's caution to the wind, since Angie keeps the man too busy what with all the rain dances and backyard bunny sacrifices to ensure plentiful harvests. If only 90s-era Brad could see himself now...

Thoughts on Twilight by William Shakespeare.

Good greetings my Lords and Ladies! It is I, William Mildred Shakespeare. You can call me Bill though. Not Billy. I hate Billy. I recently read that book series phenomenon quilled by Stephanie Meyer know as "Twilight", though why it is such a block-busting set of novels quite escapes me. Let's explore why.

 1. Leading lads and lasses: I get it. Being a teenager SUUUUUCKS. Try dying at 40 and having that be the prime of your life. I am all for the expression of the angsty pubescent as you can well see in such works as "Hamlet" or "Romeo and Juliet". In fact, some of my contemporaries said all Hamlet did was putz around Denmark with a constant paranoid scowl and pitifully denounce the names of King and Country, or as you would call it, whine. But he did so eloquently in verse after timeless verse of malcontent depression. He also attempted to take down a nefarious king, whore mother, and engaged in swordplay and death schemes. Edward is shiny. And he is sad because most of the time he wants to tear out the jugular of the chick he loves. Bella is sad because she is ugly and clumsy and in one of the books Edward leaves in an act of really over-dramatic nobility and she takes it as an excuse to shut down, scream a lot, and have a dalliance with a werewolf. THIS:

VS:

Methinks there is no contest. Mine's holding a freaking SKULL.

 2. What dreams may come:...and come they shall but you don't get to STEAL from them. It has come to my attention that "Twilight" was birthed, or as I like to put it, untimely ripped from the uterus of hellfire, from a dream Stephanie Meyer had of a shiny guy lying in a field. Whoa. Shutest the front door. I am SHAKESPEARE. I dream in Iambic Pentameter, for Christ's sake! And there are always ALWAYS leaping equestrian beasts, truest love, and an end to the plague. What could be more beauteous? But did I ever steal from my own subconscious and pen "Neigh Softly as Mine Oozing Sores Heal", a harrowing tale of two ponies from two very different walks of life who find love, and in turn run away and discover a cure for Bubonic infection in Mongolia? Of course I did. But then I thought, "Is this idea really mine? Spurred as it was from mine own head, I did not consciously envision such a tale in the waking hours of the day, but only when my head was perched upon a pillow in innocent slumber after a heavy dose of Camembert cheeses." So I used the manuscript as kindling for all the bodies that needed burning on the street and set to work using ORIGINAL IDEAS.

 3. Pick a genre, any genre: As a slave to the pen, you must constantly evolve your expression. I get that Steph, I really do. I am known for writing brilliant works in all manner of styles, be they drama, comedy, tragedy, or really boring history. But, I never employ more than one of these in ONE PLAY. You however, include all of them, and much like blending all the play dough together to create a pigeon poo grey color, your genre usage stinks. It stinks bad. Are you Danielle Steele, Nicholas Sparks, Jodi Picoult, or that guy who wrote "The Pelican Brief" because frankly madam, I cannot begin to guess. But we're all gonna need you to just pick one.

 4. The usage of the supernatural: Again, Ms Meyer, I get it. The aspect of the supernatural can really help to create a strong plot line. Just look at my brilliant employment of all things dark and mysterious, what with the three witches of Macbeth, to the mischievous escapades of Puck the fairy, and who could ever forget the haunting (literally) performance of Hamlet's ghost father? My point is though, that these were all necessary for PLOT DEVELOPMENT. From representing the archetype of the wise old woman to propelling the characters into various actions, or even acting as a means of foreshadowing or societal symbolism, they all had a POINT. I'm pretty convinced you wrote the second book around Halloween and needed something to distract from Edward and Bella's respective self-loathing and awkward (sometimes stalker-ish) entanglements, so decided to add in a fur-filled (and let's be blunt here: somewhat bestial) love triangle involving a werewolf...well done?

 From the sappy exchanges of eternal love, the gross abuse of the category of the supernatural as a plot catalyst, all the way to a relationship that boarders on obsessive insecurity I can only come to one sorry conclusion: No one ever asked Stephanie Meyer to Prom.