Room 483: America's Next Top Model

Courtesy of Wikipedia

Cycle 15, kids!  And I've watched every single one.  


Every.  Single.  One.  

I'm not proud.  Really.  But it's high time I admit it and share the love with all of you.  (Side note: I rail against Twilight and all that it stands for so I do realize that the stone in my hand should be set down.  But sparkly vampires?  Come on!)  ANTM is so oddly fascinating.  And so weirdly comforting in its cycle after cycle sameness: Auditions, makeovers, runway show, acting lesson, media skills, commercial, "We're all going to ________!", Cover Girl shoot, Final Runway Show, winner.   With a dash of Tyra-mail, Mr. Jay and Miss Jay.  


But!  As Tyra Banks touted at the beginning of tonight's premiere, this season is different.  Like High Fashion Different!  No more Seventeen magazine covers.  This time it's an Italian Vogue spread.  Which means that every episode is guaranteed to include the phrase "high fashion".   And try this fun game: take a drink whenever Tyra insists that they've "raised the bar".  


So how different was tonight's episode?  Well, for one it was in Palm Springs.  (Which screams high fashion, right?)  They grouped the girls in types and had a walkoff.  First to go were the quirky girls then the sexy ones, then the gals with strong bone structure.  And then I guess they ran out of ideas so they finished up with the blondes and the brunettes.  


So how the same was tonight's episode?  The models:  The bitchy brunette.  The "I'm above all this" alt girl.  The one(s) who like to start drama.  The one(s) who get in others' faces.  The few that are single moms.  The truly awkward girl that every one will say is really awkward and has no social skills.  And of course, the one from a small town that will say, "We don't have this in [insert small town name here]".  Oh, and there's the girl that insists on rapping for some reason.  And tonight, there were two of them! 


Special mention should go to the ritual of the girls walking into the interview room, covering their mouth and saying, "Oh my God! Tyra! I love you!"


You have to watch now, right?  Before you make your decision, let me quote one of the models tonight:  "I don't like semen on my hands."  Gold.  

Amenities of Room 483: Height requirement.  Extra tissues for Tears of Joy.  Mirror for practicing Smiling With Your Eyes.  

Room 807: It's All About The Lincolns

I've been on four business trips in my life.  All for the exact same conference.  And each time the hotel has been on the tad bit fancy side.  Like Four Pillows To A Bed fancy!  The nice, businessy and/or resorty, conference-centery hotels were in Toronto, Tucson, Nashville and now Washington DC.  (Side note: Technically not DC proper.  More like National Harbor, MD, the Town-Formerly-Known-As-Oxon Hill.  Just saved maybe one of you some grief if you're thinking of plugging "National Harbor" into an old GPS.  Wait.  Old GPS?  I thought those were called maps.  Hiyoooooo!  Thank you, I'll be here all week.  Because I fly out Friday.)

Last night some of my co-workers and I took a lovely, humid, accidental mosquito-ingesting tour of the Lincoln Memorial.  Give it up for Abe:

We listened to a Park Ranger do an interesting, rote speech about Lincoln while ignoring the loud-whispering woman trying to get her eye-rolling kids to pose for pictures in front of a column next to him.  The kids were getting annoyed with her because they wanted to listen to the guide.  I liked those kids. 

Amenities of Room 807: Historical Society Pamphlet Fans.  Doors Without Numbers.  Swampside Suite.

Room 361: "Is it hot in here...or is it just me?"

I lived a cliché last Friday afternoon.  

I was at a lovely Beverly Hills mansion for a work-related lunch.  I mention the "Beverly Hills" and "mansion" part not to impress but rather to set the unlikely scene for the events that unfolded...or revealed themselves, as it were.  

We were sitting at tables on the lush patio, chatting about how this will never be our life when the gabbing was interrupted by a male voice saying, "Excuse me, everyone."  Now I will try to describe my thought process as I looked up at the speaker.  That man is someone I don't know.  That man is wearing a fireman's hat.  That man is saying something about a birthday.  Oh no.  No way.  That man is a--  As that last phrase was forming in my head, a gay co-worker obviously thought the same thing I did.  But he had a slightly different take which was, "Take your shirt off."  And that man did.   In fact, he did the ole rip-the-t-shirt-open bit.  And breakaway pants!  And since this was a semi-fancy affair, that man wore tight, white briefs.  No thongs, thankfully.  But clingy, nonetheless.  So clingy that I didn't really see the need for the red suspenders that were attached to them.  Yes, that man had the talent to rip his blue t-shirt down the middle and taaa-daaa his jeans without taking his suspenders off.   Because they were attached to the briefs.  That man used those suspenders as a prop to gyrate suggestively over my poor co-worker who was concurrently blushing and threatening revenge.  And thankfully for all our sakes, the briefs stayed on.  (Side note:  before you ask, he himself was not "brief".  If you get my meaning.  His other job, come to find out, is modeling underwear for a questionable catalog.  And I don't know for sure if it's questionable.  I merely say that because I don't recall seeing "briefs" of that non-brevity in the JC Penny catalog.)  

I would now like to state that all of my observations happened within a few seconds because I recall spending most of the time looking at my plate of chips and salsa.   Oh, I did also look at the other horrified expressions of my tablemates.   Well, not all were horrified.  Some were just plain shell-shocked.  And some had cameras.  I just couldn't believe that it was really happening.  And I was slightly disappointed at the lack of imagination.  A fireman?  Really?  We work for a non-profit.  Couldn't that man at least dress up as a trustee of a foundation?  "Hello, I would like to make a donation..."  Boom chicka bow bow!

Amenities of Room 361: View of Well-Manicured Gardens. Fine Silverware and Crystal Glasses. 100-Foot Fire Hose.

Room 442: 11:30pm On A Saturday Night

There's not much on TV.  When you don't have cable.  Here's the rundown:

Rerun of Saturday Night Live with Drew Barrymore.  I've seen it already so I'll move on. 

TMZ with video of Kid n Play talking about Mel Gibson.  Megan Fox kissing a dolphin.  And a really annoying voice over guy.  So annoying that I have new respect for Tom Bergeron's voice overs on America's Funniest Home Videos.  

Oprah rerun with Kirstie Alley.  I'm always a wee bit disappointed when Oprah isn't doing a self-helpy episode.  But thank goodness it's not a depressing one.  I once turned over and she was interviewing a guy whose mother used to whore him out to strange men.  And he was like ten.  So Oprah likes to renew our spirit but first she wants you to loathe humanity.  

Ad for ThermoSpas.  It's a rectangular hot tub that has super current jets on one end so that you can "swim in place" for exercise.  Looks like there's even a treadmill? in it so that you can walk in water.  And of course, two captain chairs moulded into the fiberglas with massage jets.  Fits twelve adults!  

The Wanda Sykes Show.  On right now is Tim Bagley.  He is a Groundlings alumni who used to be on Will & Grace and was once on my flight from New York to LA.  

CSI New York.  There's a corpse hanging from the ceiling with a game of Hangman painted on the wall.  Gary Sinise says, "Give me some time and I'll fill in the blanks." Cue The Who! 

And cue me turning off the TV and going to bed. 

Amenities of Room 442: Complimentary O Magazine.  Whirlpool tub. Broken remote control.

Room 572: Sorry, We're Full

Twice this week a piece of random trivia dislodged itself from my brain and came out of my mouth (or typing fingertips in one case).  A few days ago, a friend revealed in a Facebook status that she was watching the film Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter Is Dead.  And I commented, "I'm right on top of that, Rose!" which is a quote from the movie.  (I believe I also added some remark about hopefully freeing that quotation from my mind forever.)  Now at this point you may be saying to yourself, "I've never heard of that movie" or "Oh yeah, it sounds familiar" or "Why on earth do you know a quote from that film?"  All legitimate thoughts.  Honestly, I have a perfectly sound reason why I remember "I'm right on top of that, Rose!"  A former co-worker wrote it on a post-it and put it in my datebook.  So I saw it almost every day for the better part of a year.  That explains the Christina Applegate circa 1991 groove on my cranium.

But the second bit of random trivia, I have no explanation...


The next obscure trivia incident happened a mere three hours ago.  My brother and I went to see The A-Team movie.  (My one line review: It was dopey and ridiculous and I enjoyed it.)  As we were leaving, we discussed the tv show.  He said he watched the first season and hey, wasn't there a female character on the show?  I responded with, "I don't think I watched many episodes and I think she was a reporter of some kind."  Hold on!  That's not the moment I'm talking about but that comes close, right?  If I didn't watch the show much and I was little at the time, how do I know that the female was a reporter?  (Oh my God.  So today's incident is not just one thing but a series of things.  Like an A-Team dam busted in my head...)  Anway, here's the real crazy thing: I then said to my brother, "Wasn't there a different guy that played Face at first?"  "What?  No!  It was always Dirk Benedict."  "Dude, I think you're wrong.  I don't why but I really think someone else played him in the pilot."  Cut to about a half hour later at my brother's apartment. Internet fired up.  He types in "Face. A-Team. Pilot."  First result is the Wikipedia page for "Templeton 'Faceman' Peck".  (Yes!  This '80s tv character has a Wikipedia page.  Existing for times such as these, I suppose.) Here's a part of the first two sentences of that entry: "...played by Dirk Benedict. Tim Dunigan played this role in the pilot episode..."  WHY DID I KNOW THAT?!?  And more importantly, what didn't make it into my head because space was occupied by that? (And I won't even go into when we looked up Melinda Culea who played the female reporter.  I could describe what episodes of Family Ties she was on. Sigh.)  


So basically what it comes down to is this: if I forget where I live, it's because that information couldn't stick due to space being occupied by knowing the events on Battle of the Network Stars.  


Amenities of Room 572: There are no vacancies at this time.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia

Room 225: One Day Staycation

I went to the Getty Villa in Malibu to play tourist on my day off.  There's an interactive area for kids.  Or for adults who envy kids' interactive museum areas.  Here you can decorate your own "Ancient Greek" vase. This was my contribution.  

Amenities of Room 225: Local Resident Discount. No age limit on Kids' Meals.  Indiana Jones Decor. 

Room 372: My Blood Type is O...MG.

I gave blood a few weeks ago at the gentle insistence of a friend.  If I recall correctly, the insistence words were "Come on!"  And she then proceeded to tell me that you get snacks when you donate blood.  Damn, she knew right where to strike.  Free food!  So I made my appointment.

I ate lunch early and drank lots of water just as I was instructed to do.  So much water, in fact, that I had to hit the bathroom before hitting the mobile.  Yes, it was a Bloodmobile parked outside the LA County Department of Health.  Why isn't there a place to donate blood inside the Department of Health building?  I asked myself the same question. I have no answer.  The registration was in the lobby.  You read all the stuff, get the info, sign the forms and then they direct you to the converted school bus where they take your blood.  (Side note: Amongst the info was an offer for two free LA Galaxy tickets.  Hell yeah!  OK.  Not quite free since there's a service charge per ticket.  And Beckham is not playing because he's injured.  But Beckham can suck it, I'll still go for $7.50.)

I answered a bunch of questions before I got anywhere near a needle.  They just wanted to know if my blood might be suspect like if I ate meat in England during the Mad Cow brouhaha or if I was fan of sharing heroine needles.  You know, the usual icebreakers.   Then they did a little prick your finger test.  Checking to see if I had enough iron, I believe.  And I passed!  Yay?

I laid down and they gave me the squeezy ball thing.  Once the needle is in and the bag is attached, you squeeze the squeezy ball every five seconds.  I guess it helped speed things along because the lady told me, "You were born to bleed."  In this instance, I take it as a compliment.

Over and done.  No wooziness.  I had a cool red bandage that I wore with pride.  And snacks.  What I didn't come away with was the knowledge of my blood type.   Yes, I made it through a few decades without knowing what blood type I have.  But I would have to wait until I get a letter a few weeks later...

Well, kids, that letter came tonight.  And in that letter is my very own Blood Donor Card.  It has my name and under it says, "O Positive."  Armed with this knowledge, I immediately did some online research only to find that  O Positive is pretty common.   Wikipedia, once again, making sure I don't feel special.  But in Wikipedia's defense, it did introduce me to the Japanese Blood Type Personality Chart!  Type O's are agreeable, social and optimistic.  But they can also be rude and vain.   Which explains why I showed everyone my red bandage and I took three snacks.

Amenities of Room 372: Mini Bar.  Designer First Aid kit.  Coupon for a Steak Dinner at the local pub.

Picture courtesy of Japanvistor.com  It's a Blood Type Condom Machine.  Yep. 

Room 524: Earth Hour

About ten years ago, I did a six week tour of various cafetoriums, gymnasiums and hallways of Midwest elementary schools called "The Earth Protectors".   Besides forcing me to wear a silver hardhat and cape, "The Earth Protectors" was a show designed to teach kids about recycling.  "Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Rethink." was the message.  (Although, I'm sure the underlying message was "Kids, don't be an actor unless you want to tour in a mini-van with faulty brakes and sleep in cheap, hygenically-challenged hotels and wear matching polo shirts."  But I digress.)   Reduce the amount of potential trash you make, reuse whatever you can, and recycle materials like cans and paper.  I can't remember what the "Rethink" was.  Probably something like, "Rethink how you live your wasteful life." Not that your life is a waste but all the waste you produce in your life.  We were Earth Protectors not Scared Straight.

I am a huge proponent of this mantra.  Yes, yes, I know that it takes a lot of energy to recycle things but that's why the Reduce and Reuse are first.  So say what you will about Climate Change, the condition formerly known as Global Warming, all you want.   I'm not talking about that.  I'm talking about Conservation, of which I am a big advocate.  I partly blame my ex-stepfather for this.  He charged me a quarter every time I left a light or the TV on when I wasn't in the room.  It used to really piss me off.  So you would think as an adult I would rebel and open all the windows and crank the AC, all the while biting into a styrofoam cup.  But no, weirdly enough, that quarter thing helped make me a believer.  And that's why I participated in the Earth Hour.  (I think I just heard "damn, dirty hippie" faintly in the distance.)

Earth Hour was tonight at 8:30pm local time and people were encouraged to turn off all electricity for one hour.  (I ended up in candlelight for two hours.  So if your schedule was not conducive to lights-out, I did an extra for you.) The Eiffel Tower went dark.  So did the Sydney Harbor Bridge and Opera House. And the Acropolis.  Which didn't originally have electric lights so not much of a sacrifice there.

I lit the candles at 8:15pm and enjoyed the quiet.  OK.  Not quite quiet.  There was some traffic noise. The baby next door crying on one side and the sullen 20-year-old knocking things over on the other.  And my dog sneezing from the scented candles.  But overall quiet.  Enough for me to reflect on all the electricity I use, how to embrace simplicity in my life and whether or not it would be cheating to open the refrigerator door for a drink (I refrained, thank you very much).

So you can think whatever you like about Climate Change.  I honestly didn't do Earth Hour for the Earth.  I did it for me, if I can be so selfish.  Because Conservation is selfish.  You are essentially hoarding your energy.  And you are ultimately saving money.  I'm not a damn, dirty hippie.  I'm a self-centered miser.  And I'm getting back all those quarters...

Amenities of Room 524: Bible made of Unbleached 100% Post Consumer Paper.  Timer-controlled lamps. Possibly clean sheets.

 

Room 1225: Farmville

I'm now begging my "neighbors" to send me paned windows so that I can finish my "maison".  That's what happens when you're on  the crack that is known as Farmville.  

I held out as long as I could but a friend of mine (I won't tell you their name but their initials are Krista) pleaded with me to be her neighbor so that she could get to the next level.  I was assured that I wouldn't have to do anything except sign up and accept her as my neighbor.  The Facebook application equivalent of "the first one's free".  Because you can't just do nothing.  I mean you can, but then your six plowed plots get nasty and withered and weedy.  And I was happy with that.  So what happened between seedy vacant lot and public implorations for virtual house building supplies?  I really don't know.  I think the tipping point was when I customized my farmer-self.  I didn't want pigtails.  And I wanted sassy red lips.  Bam.  Committed.  I started planting seeds.  And then people gave me cute cartoon cows and horses.  A pink diamond appeared over their heads.  I had to milk the cows.  Damn it. 

I've even started fertilizing my neighbors' lands and feeding their chickens.  Why?  Hello, experience points.  And if the chickens are really happy then they lay a mystery egg.  I'm now scouring my friends' pages looking to see if they found a mystery egg so I can hatch it.  (Side note: "hatching" consists of clicking a button that says "Hatch egg".  Just wanted to clear that up.)  But I'm now so entrenched in Farmville that I get pissed off when I hatch an egg and get another damn chicken.  Yes, yes, logic states that chickens come from hatched eggs.  But I've gotten collectibles from mystery eggs.  Oh yeah, I'm also desperately looking for collectibles so that I can complete a collection and get a special gift.  I actually did complete a collection once and my gift was fuel.  What do I hate more than hatching chickens? Getting more fuel.  I've seen farms with elephants.  I want an elephant.  Not gasoline.  I can get that in real life.   I don't, however, have many opportunities for elephants in Burbank.  

Excuse me, my raspberries are ready to harvest and my foal needs brushing. 

Amenities of Room 1225: Paned windows.  Adjacent to petting zoo.  All-You-Can-Eat Omelette Bar.  

Room 735: Blame Canada

I love the Olympics.  Not just because I have a weird--not quite sexual but not sure what it is--crush on Bob Costas.  I mean, "love", as in I've watched curling.  And I've said to the TV while watching curling, "Sweep! Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!"  So I'm all over Vancouver right now.  And understandably, in between the Morgan Freeman narrated Visa commercials and the various Olympic athlete endorsement deals, there is a "Come to British Columbia" ad.  Did you know that Kim Cattrall is Canadian?  Me neither.  (Insert Sex and the City, Eh Joke. Or Insert Sex and the Territory Joke. Or Insert Government Funded Health Care and the City Joke.  I'll stop.)  Did you know Ryan Reynolds is Canadian?  I think I did for some reason.  The ad features Reynolds looking all rugged and wildernessy.  I think he's by a campfire.  I'm sure that fire will figure heavily in many women's Ryan Reynolds Lumberjack fantasies.  Not my fantasy though.  No offense to Reynolds but I delighted in seeing Michael J. Fox pimp out his home territory.  I definitely knew he was Canadian.  In fact, I recall thinking he was exotic because he was from Canada.  Hey, I was ten.

Sarah MacLachlan was also in the ad.  It's terrible that when I hear her voice I think of abused animals.  I blame you, ASPCA!  Take back your free mailing labels!

Amenities of Room 735: Complimentary breakfast of Canadian bacon and Canada Dry.  Offered every four years.

Room 622: Sending a Nickel to get $25

My Poor Man's Mentality cannot bring myself to throw away personalized mailing labels, pens, nickels, or (randomly) gloves that non-profits send me to get a donation. And Poor Mandy cannot always donate. So what to do with all the "Please Accept Our Free Gift"'s? It's not really free since it is designed to guilt you into donating and if you don't or can't then it costs you an ounce of self-respect when you use those "gifts". I thought I had put myself on a "Don't send me junk mail" list and maybe I did. But I guess I found myself on a Sold List. And I blame the ASPCA. Because I give to them. And now I'm getting Wildlife stuff, Save the Wolves, Humane Society, and some one about horses that I didn't open. I was afraid of being confronted with Sad Horse Eyes. But if it was only a letter then I could confidently say, "I have to limit my giving so I shall tear my name and address off and shred it and then recycle the rest." That's not actually word-for-word. I guess I'm trying to win you over with my conscientiousness to justify keeping the LA SPCA wrapping paper this past Christmas...and actually using it. So that there is the problem: it's not just a letter. It's free stuff. Free stuff that borderline hippies like me will feel guilty about throwing away and guilty about keeping without donating. However, I don't feel bad about the mailing labels anymore. Someone once said to me, "I see it as free advertising for their cause. And that's my donation." I know: weasel. But it's enough to reserve my guilt for something else. Like those damn nickels that some organizations tape to their solicitation. What's that about? I'm assuming they did some research that assured them that the return would more than make up for the lost coins. (Side note: when I was younger, I was afraid to use those pennies and nickels for fear they were counterfeit. I guess I thought they were like the fake credit cards that came with the applications. You know, like Amex's with the name CF Frost. Remember that faux dude?) But I CANNOT. THROW. MONEY. AWAY. So I bury it in my plastic Improv cup with the legitimately earned nickels and dimes. And then I won't know I'm using tainted money when I later on need vending coins. Not that it always works. I know it's in there. Waiting...

The Fret Level is overwhelming enough that I need to go lie down and snuggle with my Humane Society blanket...

Amenities of Room 622: Special WWF Suite.  Fridge stocked with National Park Service water bottles and Baby Seal Snicker bars.  Pay What You Can laundry bags.

Grand Staircase: Me and My Inflatable Donut

I spent most of the Christmas holiday with a cold. And just when it was tapering off, I celebrated by falling down my stairs. In mid-flight, I accidentally knocked my dog over but she recovered much quicker and far more gracefully than I did. It was dark. And turned my head to see a police car go down the back alley and suddenly my bum was step-surfing. I haven't injured myself in quite a while but I fully expected to unleash a string of exquisitely detailed obscenities. Much to my surprise, I yelled, "Oh! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Ow! Ow! Ow!" I apparently was momentarily possessed by Grandma. I guess I didn't want to offend my pot-smoking neighbors whose window was open very near to where I fell. Which was very kind of me, considering it was midnight. And since it was midnight, I continued with the ritual of taking my dog out for the Quick Pee In Front Of the Bank. Upon returning...slowly...to my abode, I turned on the computer to consult the World Wide Web for a "What To Do". Because "It's Midnight" wins out over "Real Doctor Advice". I wrapped up my jammed fingers and went to bed.

I went to work the next day. My co-workers' reactions ranged from "What happened?" to "Why did you come into work?" The latter was an excellent question. Why? Well, first off: good story. Secondly: sympathy and attention. Like I said, it's been a while since I've been injured. Should I pass up the opportunity? But eliciting sympathy is a little precarious. Overdo it and you're not Poor Bruised Tailbone Mandy. You're a pain in the ass. GET IT?!?! Bruised Tailbone? (Side note: I can't believe this joke never occurred to me until this moment. I'm slipping...GET IT?!!? I fell!) Yes, I bruised my tailbone. Or as many delighted in telling me, I may have cracked it. So maybe I should have gone to the doctor. Apparently it wouldn't matter. Bruised or cracked, all I can do is wait it out. Just like the jammed finger. (I self-diagnosed that one as well. I could bend my finger without screaming Grandma-style again so I figured it couldn't be that serious.) Oh, that jammed finger? Of course, it had to be on my right hand. Specifically, my middle finger of my right hand. You use that finger quite a bit, I realize, when you're right handed. And it swelled up nicely. It was like that finger was replaced by a burly man's middle finger. I had an obese bird.

Now just over a week later, the finger is still swollen and bruised. The tailbone still hurts like crazy. Mainly when I've been sitting for a long time. Hence the Inflatable Donut. Hence not seeing Avatar yet.

And I bought that mini inner tube with no embarrassment of any kind. The shame only kicked in when others called it a Hemorrhoid Donut. Awesome. I feel I should go back to the CVS and explain to the cashier why I actually bought the donut. (Side note: I've been spelling it donut and not doughnut. It feels correct to leave "dough" out of it.) It's gotten a wee bit better though. Or I've gotten used to it. Or I've finally perfected the Art of Standing Without Engaging the Coccyx.

Warning: Staircase is steep. Please proceed with caution.