TV Boyfriends: Uncategorized Edition

In an attempt to shift my focus to lighter topics and assuage my insomnia, I decided to compile a list of my TV boyfriends and girlfriends. In the process, I discovered that I suffer from an excess of lust (and pride and sloth and greed and envy)– the candidates were so numerous that I had to break them down into multiple posts. This is the first one.

I also realized that I have a distinct ‘type’ with respect to some things, but I’m truly all over the place with others. I had a hard time justifying why some of these people were even on my list– I couldn’t evince why they turned me on, just that they did. I guess what my married friends said during their obnoxious stage is true: When you know, you just know. I encourage you to heartily agree with my harem, question my sanity, or offer up harem contenders of your own.

And yes, Sass, I know we share joint custody on many of the people appearing in my harems. I’m down.

**

These three don’t have much in common. Frankly, they’re the only ones I couldn’t find a category for, so if anyone can see a common thread, please let me know and I’ll give these three hotties a category to call their own.

Fox Mulder, X-Files

One of my very first TV-boyfriends. Mulder was hot, brilliant, tortured, misunderstood and a bit of a spaz. His dogged determination to exorcise his demons and prove his wacky theories correct made him very appealing to young adults such as myself who felt like we too were perceived as misunderstood and wacky despite our personal conviction that we were brilliant and destined for greatness. Mulder wasn’t all perfect, though– he was often quite a dick to the lovely Dana Scully and when he cried, he bore a striking resemblance to a Shar-Pei. But really, who other than Allison Janney and Sarah Michelle Gellar can pull off a really pretty cry? I’m not gonna hate on Mulder for that.

Of course, I have to deliberately separate Mulder from David Duchovny, who came off as an arrogant boor in almost all media. The whole manslut artiste vibe did not appeal, and when he started bitching in detail about the ‘hell’ of filming in Vancouver, this little Canadian got piqued. Of course, once he got his way and the show moved to LA, he quit. Perhaps he suffered from David Caruso Syndrome, or perhaps it was his incongruous choice of wife (the unfunny Tea Leoni) that led to this dumbass decision. I suppose the Duke didn’t realize that his acting is pretty one-note and attributed his fame to delusions of great talent as opposed to his cult status. His bitchery about his years on The X-Files is a case study in what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you– since leaving the show, his work has been confined to guest bits in the movies and TV shows of personal friends– and to his credit, he was always excellent– but it’s hardly the superstardom I suspect he was anticipating. Recently, Duchovny landed a regular gig as the leading man on Californication (a show he produces himself, incidentally) and I must say the show is pretty good, despite Duchovny’s character being an arrogant manwhore. The Duke’s acting is even believable in this one– I suspect because he’s playing a character not too far removed from himself. Or his fantasies.

Phil Keoghan, The Amazing Race

Perhaps you find The Phil to be a surprising choice. If you watch The Amazing Race, you may have some insight into what makes Phil the hottest host on TV.

Let’s start with the obvious and shallow: Phil has an accent. It’s Kiwi (not Australian, dammit!), but frankly who cares? Because accents are hot. Also, Phil is an accomplished outdoorsman and adventurer– kind of like The Crocodile Hunter, but without the braying and the cartoonish voiceovers. Or the crocodiles. Phil’s more of an extreme sports type of adventurer. It’s hard to ignore the tug of desire I feel when confronted with a man so fucking manly that he cage dives with great white sharks and jumps out of planes. And everyone seems to genuinely like Phil– from Quechua medicine women to Masai warriors, Phil’s respect and enthusiasm for his vocation garners him world-wide props.

On TAR, Phil doesn’t do much except introduce segments and stand at the finish line next to some uncomfortable local in ‘traditional’ garb. Phil’s garb is equally deserving of comment– he is often outfitted in a sweater of some sort– usually he looks scrumpy, but there have been some unfortunate Cosby-like sweaters for which I place the blame squarely on whomever is responsible for costuming. Phil seems to know when his sweaters suck, because he looks ashamed of how he’s dressed– kind of like a kid that knows he’s been dressed by his half-blind and woefully out-of-touch mother.

Phil has an understated sense of humor and an excellent sense of comedic timing– often the bullshit spewed in his direction from the less tasteful of TAR contestants is met with a single raised brow or a wry comment that is rarely understood by the contestant but relished by the home viewer. Phil also appears to have no problem laying down the smack on those contestants whose behaviour is so ignoble that he cannot resist expressing his distaste. I like it that he’s able to point out what an asshat people are being without being aggressive or escalating the situation. Sometimes I wish he’d just punch the shit out of some of these people (Jonathan, I’m talking about you) and I bet he would love to serve up some street justice, too, if delivering an ass-kicking wasn’t a fireable offence. Too bad the show isn’t on FOX.

Taye Diggs, Kevin Hill

OK. I know Taye Diggs has done way more work on stage and film than on TV, but I had to fit him in somewhere because regardless of where this hunk of chocolate heaven is working nowadays, the fact remains that he never fails to deliver the hawt. I watched Kevin Hill solely because it provided me with a regular fix of The Taye, and I’m still pissed off that it got cancelled, because it wasn’t all that bad. Because, Taye Diggs! Hello? It could be a show about ditch-digging and I’d watch it if he was in it.

What can I say about the incomparable hotness of Taye Diggs? He makes my loins burn. When he takes his shirt off I feel tingly in my girlie bits. His arms and abs are fucking lickable. I grin like an ass whenever he’s on the screen, broken up by frequent episodes of moaning in lust. If someone has the unfortune of being with me at the time, they’re sure to be annoyed by my repetitive exclamations as to his inveterate hotness.

Aside from his obvious physical attributes, there are other things that contribute to Taye’s rampant sexiness: He dresses well and looks fucking edible in a business suit. He can pull off the metro look without looking fey or vain. He can sing, dance and play the piano, all of which somehow enhance his masculinity, which is a rare feat indeed. By all accounts, he’s a stand-up guy. He’s married, and while this fact would tend to cause a small reduction in my lust-quotient for your average hottie, Taye once again manages to work this in his favor. His marriage to uberbabe Idina Menzel only spurs on further depraved fantasies– they are arguably the hottest couple in showbiz (Brad and Angelina? Whatev.) and I would gladly snatch up the opportunity to be the meat in a Taye-and-Idina sandwich. Bottom line: He’s squidge-worthy, sponge-worthy, and hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut.

**

OK. All that thinking about Taye Diggs has made me… tired. Yes, tired… that’s it, yeah. I think I’ll go to bed.

How NOT To Get The Job

So I just got back from a job interview.

Although I’m cognizant of the fact that I am my own harshest critic, this time I fully deserve to be kicked in the ass, because the interview was a complete disaster and it was 100% my fault.

I wasn’t sure I wanted this job anyhow, so perhaps I was semi-consciously sabotaging myself.  I don’t know what my psyche’s motivations were.  But I write this post in the hopes of educating others who may actually want to make a good impression and not be unemployed forever.  If you do exactly the opposite of me, you stand a chance at being successful.  Alternatively, if you want to pooch an interview just for the hell of it, here are some steps you may wish to follow:

 1.  Do your pre-interview research at 3:00 a.m. the day of your interview.  You will most certainly fail to retain that information and thus fail to develop any intelligent statements based on it.

2.  Go to bed at 4:30 a.m. and wake up at 7:00.  Mind-numbing exhaustion, while effective in reducing anxiety, is not effective for anything else other than fantasizing about going back to bed.

3.  In an effort to deal with the 2.5 hours of ‘sleep’ you have, drink a ton of coffee and load up on your ADD meds.  Shaking like a tweaker fails to make a good impression unless you’re a showbiz exec.

4.  Fail to properly assess your wardrobe in advance.  This can result in last-minute ironing and shoe-polishing.  A poor outfit can mitigate the anxiety-reducing effects of your lack of sleep– this combined with the coffee and amphetamines swings you into a state of mania, which can be recognized by scurrying about ineffectively whilst swearing like a trooper.  And taking frequent pee breaks.

5.  Special note for the ladies:  Just because you have four pairs of pantyhose in your dresser does not mean that any of them are viable.  Failing to check for picks, holes and runs in advance results in spending half an hour attempting to decide on the most acceptably decrepit pair and then artfully rearranging your clothing in an attempt to hide the offending hole/run.  Because you are already running late, buying a new pair is simply not an option.

6.  Decide that you must turn your mind to how you will answer the typical interview questions ten minutes before your scheduled departure time.  Instead of accepting the fact that you are unprepared and simply going to the interview, redouble your efforts.  This will result in poorly thought-out responses that you will not retain and will successfully erase any time ‘cushion’ you may have had to account for your perpetual lateness.

7.  Due to the fact that you are now running late, choose to take a taxi instead of public transit.  Who needs $20 when they’re unemployed?

8.  Fail to call and order said taxi, and instead aim to flag one down at the nearest intersection.  Doggedly persist in this despite indicators that it’s a losing proposition– things like a noticeable lack of taxis due to the redirection of traffic for roadwork purposes.

9.  Do not move to another intersection in the hopes of finding a more taxi-rich environment.  Instead, light a cigarette, wave madly at anything bearing even a vague resemblance to a taxi, and pace about, swearing aloud.  Sometimes this will confer benefits, such as the sympathy and advice of local pedestrians.  Listen to these people, even if they have big 80s hair and acid-wash jeans, for they are surely more sane than you.  I am grateful for the sage words of my local pedestrian, who suggested I call the potential employer and notify them of my impending lateness.  Unfortunately, this will not be enough to tip the scales in your favor, because you’ve already made a bollocks of the entire process.

10.  When calling the potential employer to notify them of your lateness, ensure that you are standing on a busy streetcorner.  Choose your moment wisely– making the call while the construction crew is drilling into cement is ideal.

11. Spend a few minutes considering going home, going back to bed, and pretending you forgot about the interview.  Ultimately decide that you deserved to be punished for your idiocy and proceed with what is now nothing but a farce from which the only productive thing that could possibly emerge is a mediocre blog post.

12. Sit down in taxi and realize your skirt is a bit on the short side.  Try to put a positive spin on it, reminding yourself that an office insider told you that one of the interviewers is a skeezy guy so it behooves you to flash a little corporate T&A.  Realize that not only is ‘slut’ not a great message to deliver, but the hiked-up skirt reveals the derelict nature of your pantyhose.  Resign yourself to looking like you have been outfitted by Courtney Love’s stylist.

13.  Arrive at interview and learn that the aforementioned pervert interviewer couldn’t make it and instead you will be interviewed by two middle-aged women.  Try to find the humor in your self-induced travesty, but fail because this shit just ain’t funny when you’re living it.

14.  Be so nervous, speedy and unprepared that you ramble on like the crazy homeless person you so resemble.  Ensure that there are long, uncomfortable silences between bouts of verbal diarrhea.  Attempt to repeat yourself as much as possible, ideally in response to the same question.

15.  Tell the truth about your recent termination and attempt to ignore the sudden chill from the interviewers.  Instead, try to put a positive spin on getting fired, which inevitably sounds totally canned and half-assed, which is exactly what it is.

16.  Agree with whatever the interviewers say and pretend you totally get it, even if you don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.  Spend the next two minutes silently praying they don’t ask you to expand upon it and in the process utterly miss the next question, requiring the interviewers to repeat themselves. 

17.  When the interview ends an hour earlier than scheduled, do not dismay as it is already apparent to you that you fucked this one up in a big way.  Instead, be grateful that you will get out of the pantyhose and into bed an hour earlier.

18.  Resolve to do better next time.  First step:  blog about it in the hopes that it will serve as a reminder to you and will build up excellent karma by preventing others from following your example.

It’s All About ME… Except When It’s Not

The weather today is beautiful, a fact I noticed only upon exiting my dark basement apartment at 2:00 in order to buy smokes.

I had the sneaking suspicion that this may be the last day where you could sit outside in shorts and enjoy the sun until, like, May 2008.  So I decided to take advantage of the situation and gathered up my book, a Diet Pepsi, the aforementioned fresh pack of smokes and parked myself in a lawn chair in the yard.  My outfit of choice consisted of a pair of shorts and the top from a really nice bikini I purchased way back in June and sadly did not have the opportunity to wear at all this summer.

In the interests of full disclosure, I must admit that I, like most women, have some body image issues.  I have some junk in the trunk– not, like, a flea market’s worth of junk, but enough to clutter a small closet.  Enough that I feel self-conscious when scantily clad, which results in a lot of squirming and tugging and artful body-positioning when my scantily-clad self is presented in public.  But the backyard is another story– there I am more-or-less protected from the critical eye of the general public, and despite the fact that the yard isn’t fenced in, the only people that could presumably see me are the neighbors on either side.  And I don’t see them much.  Therefore, my dysmorphic behavior is significantly scaled down– say from a 75 to a 20 (it never fully goes away).

So here I am, lounging about, enjoying my unemployment for the first time in several weeks.  I’m lying on my stomach, reading mental_floss’ excellent book “Forbidden Knowledge” (a boon for both trivia junkies and ADDers) and generally enjoying the weather, when I hear my (male) neighbor enter his yard.  I squelch my sudden urge to tug at my shorts and continue to read as if I never noticed the guy.  But then he says:

“Oh my, what a big bum!”

Time stood still.  In those few seconds, I had some decisions to make.  Should I ignore my neighbor?  Physically or verbally assault him?  Or should I beat a hasty retreat and shed shameful tears in the privacy of my living room?

In the end, I took a middle-of-the-road approach.  I turned over and said: “Pardon me?” in a partly-laughing, partly-threatening kind of tone.  My poor neighbor, he looked stunned and then very embarrassed.  Because his commentary on bum sizes was directed towards his new (and growing) puppy, which had just relieved itself in a rather spectacular way.

He hadn’t noticed me it all. 

Which leads me to wonder how often I have knee-jerk negative reactions to things that aren’t about me at all.  I mean, of course it’s all about me (in my head).  But is it possible that for other people, it’s all about them?  That they do not immediately notice me and feel compelled to comment on my oh-so-interesting self, because they are too busy doing their own thing?  Imagine the freedom!

So yeah, my neighbor apologized profusely for a few minutes, but in the end we both got a good laugh out of it.  When he went back inside, I tugged my shorts up a little and positioned myself so that my book shielded my central tummy-roll.  Old habits die hard.

Panic Part I

OK so I have a telephone interview (or a pre-screening, whatever that means) tomorrow at 10:30.  I am in a total panic because this is the only job I’ve applied for that doesn’t seem like it would make me want to kill myself within two weeks.

And I’m too freaked right now to do any practice/research/anything remotely helpful or productive.  I guess I’ll get up early and hope that my typical morning grogginess offsets my natural urge to completely wig out.

Veronica Lives!

I like watching TV. Maybe not as much as I used to– and mind you I could be saying that because the new TV season hasn’t started and I’m all TV-deprived at the moment– but nevertheless, I’m a fan.

But I suffer from an affliction I have learned is not uncommon amongst those who followed a now-defunct TV program with dedication and simply aren’t ready to let it go. Essentially, this condition presents as an inability to separate the character on the show from the actor who (allegedly) portrayed them. And a staunch refusal to accept that their beloved characters aren’t, in fact, real.

I am fully aware that this is a choice to live in a state of delusion, and oh what a happy place it is.

For instance, everyone from Buffy, and to a lesser degree, Angel, are actually their characters and although we do not get to watch their current adventures on a once-weekly basis, I choose to believe that they are, in fact, out there somewhere, living their lives without the benefit of my voyeurism. Sometimes we get evidence that they are doing new things– like when Buffy was in those crappy Japanese rip-off Grudge movies, I was all: “Check out Buffy. She’s doing movies now, even if they are crappy. Go Buffy.”

…Buffy watch out, that creepy Japanese kid is sneaking up on you…

Apparently Joan of Arcadia saw what Buffy was up to and thought she’d take a rest from making the concept of God accessible to liberal intellectuals and visit Japan herself.

… Joan, that is TOTALLY not Little-Girl God…

Then there’s Willow, who can be seen on a weekly basis on a TV sitcom called How I Met Your Mother. Due to the fact that I generally eschew sitcoms as ‘lowbrow’ (and never mind the fact that I love reality TV, just think of me as an enigma, OK?), I have been told that Willow is doing a good job. Apparently, she hasn’t really changed at all, except that the whole Wiccan lesbian thing isn’t really being addressed. Alas, lesbian witches with deep guilt issues aren’t considered light enough for ‘family viewing’. Prigs.

This past May, though, I suffered terribly upon learning that Veronica Mars was cancelled, although I can’t honestly say it wasn’t anticipated. Veronica is so effing cool and she routinely and soundly kicks ass. Except when it comes to romantic relationships (I mean, Duncan? Logan? Pizz, for chrissakes, PIZZ?), but I can forgive her that seeing as I personally know many effing cool, ass-kicking women who repeatedly make incomprehensible relationship choices– myself being one of them. I mourned the fact that I would no longer be privy to Veronica’s brand of uber-confident, refreshingly smug and cleverer-than-thou smart-aleck behavior, but I remained fully convinced that she smart-alecked on, just without my weekly support and approval. Which of course she doesn’t need. But despite her lack of co-dependency, I missed her regardless.

Then I learned that Veronica is coming back! She’s apparently uncovered some superpowers in the past few months and has parlayed her investigatory and verbal sparring skills into a gig on Heroes. Holla!

I hope Veronica’s track-record for relationships improves while she’s working on this project, but the photo below leaves me fearing that the woman’s going to need significant therapy before resolving her relationship issues.

Ummm, Veronica, you know that’s SYLAR, right? Please tell me this is some undercover gig, because otherwise it’s time for an intervention.

Speaking of interventions, I’m going to need one myself if the new television season doesn’t start shortly. My withdrawal is so severe that my DTs cause me to rapidly flip channels, often settling on some godawful TLC program that is nothing but an extended commercial for birth control and the benefits of tubal ligation (Nanny 911, I’m looking at you). I mean, what’s an unemployed, poverty-stricken girl supposed to do with her time?

OK. I know what you’re thinking. So let me rephrase the question: What fun things is an unemployed, poverty-stricken girl supposed to do with her time?

Karmic Retribution

I think my cat is trying to tell me something.  Last night I go wandering into the foyer and note that my cat had puked in my shoe.  Like, in it.  The barf was neatly inserted, perfectly cradled by the insole, as if awaiting the moment I slipped my foot in and started hollering in digust.  She did not choose to barf in one of the many pairs of cheap sandals I have strewn about, no.  She chose my very cute and somewhat pricey Skechers that I had my heart set on for a year and finally bought once they went on sale.  I love them so, and I’m not a ‘shoe person’ at all.

 So at 3:00 a.m., here I am scrubbing away at my sneaker insoles with stain remover and paper towels whilst cursing the fact that one cannot get shoes dry-cleaned in Toronto.  I know this because I’ve asked several local dry cleaners.  My inquiries were met with confused looks, requests to further elaborate on what I meant by ‘sneakers’ or ‘running shoes’, followed by incredulous ‘no’s and a slow backing away as if they feared I may launch said footwear at their heads.   I had no idea this request was peculiar in any way.  They dry-clean sneakers in Amsterdam, a considerably smaller market.  And the Dutch dry cleaners were perfectly capable of understanding and performing the requested service, despite my broken Dutch.  There was no fear or wonderment in their eyes, but then again, the Dutch have seen it all and are pretty stoic about it, so it’s difficult to shock them. 

At last, I finish my sneaker cleaning activities and replace the shoes, while the cat pretends to slumber nearby, concocting an alternative plan seeing as her first attempt went awry. 

This morning I go to slip on a pair of the aforementioned cheap sandals and note that Meg has successfully executed her retaliatory plan.  The same shoe is now filled with considerably more fluid vomit.  This time the evil furball has the good sense to hide so that I don’t extract a more forceful brand of revenge on her ass.  Further shoe cleaning ensues and I have now placed the twice-defiled sneakers in a less accessible spot.  I then locate the perp, who is cowering under the bed with her ears folded back, and hiss:  “SPCA, Meg, you got it?  SPCA.  Next time it’s the needle.”

————

Have you ever offered to do something you totally don’t want to do simply because you want to look good and you’re certain you won’t get taken up on it?  Don’t you hate it when you actually do get taken up on it and you’re forced to come through?  Kinda takes the joy out of garnering brownie points while making zero effort, doesn’t it?

I’m unemployed and the job market sucks.  I’m not going to launch into a diatribe about the soul-sucking task of job hunting, I’ll leave that rant for another post, but let’s just say that if getting fired isn’t enough to crush your dignity, jockeying for a new job will take whatever tattered shreds your former employer spared and grind them up into an unrecognizable pulp. 

 So I applied for this position that actually looked like something I wanted to do.  Not to mention I’m actually qualified for it, it would be a natural step in my career progression, and would make for excellent conversation at parties, where I would assuredly have one of the most interesting jobs in the room.  And then there’s the added bonus that it’s unionized, thus negating any chance of getting fired, save for criminal activity (and even then…)

After sending in the requisite resume and cover letter, the next step on your road to utter loss of dignity is the dreaded follow-up phone call.  You know, the one where you call whatever HR admin wanker is listed in the ad, ‘just to make sure’ they got your application?  And you know they’re all: ‘Leave me alone, desperate person, I’ve actually got a job to do here, unlike you.’  And you really can’t blame them because in fact, you are a desperate person with no job, unlike them. 

So I suck it up and make the call.  The HR admin wanker is surprisingly non-wankish and forthcoming with information.  She lets me know that they received over 300 applications for this one position, and that she and three of the managerial staff are meeting Friday afternoon to discuss who they want to interview.  If you hear from us, great, if not, you’re outta luck.  I thank her in my best professional voice, hang up the phone and promptly start to imagine myself living in a refrigerator box under the Gardiner Expressway.  After indulging in my little pity-party, I concoct what I believe to be a foolproof plan.  

I will use my investigatory (read: stalking) skills to hunt down the names and contact information of these managers and email them a request to have a phone conversation about the specifics of the job, because a job posting can’t really give you a feel for the day-to-day realities, blah blah blah asskiss.  My intention here is not to have this conversation at all– I just want these people to remember my name and think of me as a keener when my resume comes up in the Friday meeting.  I have no fear that anyone will actually volunteer to speak to me, after all, this organization is super-busy and who can spare the time to entertain the questions of a desperate unemployed person who is obviously angling for special consideration?

Well, apparently they can.

 Today I get an email from the Senior Manager, offering a little phone convo Friday morning, seeing as he’s in meetings all afternoon (you don’t say).  I enthusiastically take him up on his offer with hearty thanks and let him know I’ll give him a call at 11:00.      

Yeah, so now I’m shitting my pants.  What the hell am I going to ask this guy so I don’t look like a complete asshole?  How can I tread that thin line between the sycophantism of Eddie Haskell and the cool confidence of Arthur Fonzarelli?  What do I do to shut up the voice inside my head reminding me that my ass-kissing ways are utterly transparent and that my pulverized dignity is about to be blown away like so much dust in the wind?  And sweet merciful Zeus, how do I prevent myself from saying something totally retarded because I never fail to do so whenever I’m nervous?

Oh to hell with it.  I’m going to go watch Big Brother and try to remind myself that there are people out there far more dysfunctional than me who choose to have their idiocy aired on live feeds 24/7.  Or maybe I’ll save my cat the effort and just barf in my own shoes.