April 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
REPEAT ALERT: This was originally posted in June of 2012. I have been out of the Reality TV Business for almost 2 years, and it still feels [explicative] amazing!
You’ll have to hang in there while I get back into the game here. I have the Hollywood Hangover. When you finish a show and are just exhausted, emotionally drained yet amped enough to punch someone. This is where the majority of the crime comes from in this town. You want to sleep for days but you either wake up at funny hours or have constant work dreams. It takes weeks for you to feel back on your feet/normal, adrenal glands pleading for rest. Then you start a new job…
Not me, not this girl. Yes, that’s right, I’m getting off the reality show marry-go-round. Now that I’m making my unofficial exit, I think I’ll start my tell-all book about the real reality TV and see if I can get money from the conglomes to not publish it. Kidding.
I thought it would be fun to give my final OTF. In TV talk that means On the Fly [interview]. OTF’s are the little pieces of interviews you see when a reality personality is discussing the event that is happening on your screen. It’s usually the voice over to an activity, or event, or drama. And the person usually appears to be standing. A girl crying in a van after she didn’t get a flower saying, “I really love him, I just hope she doesn’t hurt him. Boo hoo hoo.” That’s a final OTF. See, you learned something today. So this is my final OTF. Uncut.
Producer: Tell me why you’re leaving reality TV?
TIB: Because I’m done.
Producer: Okay, now tell me in a full sentence why you’re leaving. Say: I’m leaving reality TV… then tell me why and how you feel about it.
TIB: I’m leaving reality TV because I’m done. And I feel happy about it.
Producer: Okay, great! Now tell me, just like you did, but this time tell me the events that lead up you “being done.” But in a full sentence.
TIB: But I’m just done. There isn’t much to it.
Producer: Sure there is. You’re doing great. You got this. There has to be a reason why, or a person you didn’t like, or something holding you back? Tell me why. You’re doing great.
TIB: I just didn’t get my film degree to interview numb-nuts and work 18 hours a day.
Producer: Perfect! Now say that again but start with, “I’m leaving reality TV because…” and then say what you just said.
TIB: I’m leaving reality TV because I didn’t get a film degree to interview people and work a lot. — wait, I messed that up. What did I say before?
Producer: No you didn’t, you’re doing great, doing great. You said, “I just didn’t get my film degree to interview numb-nuts and work 18 hours a day.” Go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.
TIB: I’m leaving reality TV because I just didn’t get my film degree to interview attention whores and work 18 hours a day. I have a boyfriend, and friends, and a family I never see because either I don’t have the money or I don’t have the time.
Producer: How are you feeling about your decision?
TIB: I’m feeling great about my decision. It was a little scary at first, but I think it’s for the better.
Producer: Great, this is great. Do you think because you don’t have the time or the money, that’s the reason why you’re not married and don’t have kids? In a complete sentence.
Producer: Do you think working in reality TV is to blame for not being married or having any kids?
TIB: Well, I have a pretty solid birth control method. That’s why I don’t have a kid.
Producer: What about not being married? You’ve have a few long term boyfriends, and this Mister Red seems like a catch. Is reality TV the reason why you’re not married?
Producer: You just said you didn’t have time or money. Could that be to blame for your “single” status?
TIB: I’m The [EXPLETIVE] Internet Bachelorette, I’m not married because I’m [EXPLETIVE] awesome! Reality TV has nothing to do with being [EXPLETIVE] awesome. I just met the love of my life 2 years ago… I need time, lay off me.
Producer: Okay, great. That’s a great answer. Now that you’re out of reality TV do you think you and Mister Red will get married?
TIB: We might–
Producer: Start with, Now that I’m out of reality TV Mister Red and I…
TIB: Now that I’m out of reality TV Mister Red and I probably will enjoy our new barbeque for a while and not worry about it.
Producer: Not worry about what?
TIB: We’ll probably just enjoy our new barbeque for a while and not worry about marriage.
Producer: Good enough. I think we’re good here. Let’s wrap it up.
TIB: Wait! Aren’t you going to ask me about what I’m going to do for money? Or my writing?
Producer: Oh sure, we can do that. What are you doing next? How will you make money?
TIB: I’m getting certified to teach Pilates and other fitness classes. This will also afford me not only time to write, but time for family and friends.
Producer: Will you still write TIB after you’re engaged?
TIB: I’m not getting [EXPLETIVE] engaged anytime soon. Where are you getting this?
Producer: But why would you keep writing TIB if you weren’t a Bachelorette anymore?
TIB: Maybe I’ll start a new blog. I don’t know. I don’t have it all figured out. Right now, I’m not engaged to be married to anything. But I am engaged in living my life and achieving my goals, writing for TIB or writing scripts or writing articles. Just writing. [EXPLETIVE] writing all the time.
Producer: Okay, great. We’re done. (under breath to AP) Let’s make a note to cut that last part out about Pilates and all that writing. It’s too real, too boring. We’ll put the rest of it over her crying to her boyfriend after she killed baby birds “accidentally.” I think the food poisoning and working from the bathroom is too graphic, unless we can make it look like she was drunk. Whatever, we made our day. We’ll fix it in post.
Truth is, I got a little misty as I watched the last reality moment I produced unfold with romance, fireworks, passionate kissing wrapped in a blanket in the middle of field. But that all changed the second the chick got into her final OTF and asked me the name of the guy she had just been making out with for the last half hour. Yeah, I’m done.
I always love to hear your comments so let me have it! Either here or on The facebook.
April 24, 2014 § Leave a comment
My balloon has been deflated. With the recent tax season wrapped up, it has been called to my attention that getting married is more about finances, GNP, and reproduction, than it is about love. Well, love is a given. Love is how it all starts out, sadly only 50% end the same way. Did I burst your bubble too? Allow me to explain.
In my household, Mister Red and I have a Mmm: Monthly Money Meeting (no, not because we are nerds, but because we want to retire one day. Get with the program people). This month we got hit with taxes, our health and car insurance premiums were raised and then we made the mistake of calculating how much money we would save if we were married. Let’s just say, it’s enough.
Need another example of how being single in the eyes of the law is hurting your personal economy? I will tell you of a different tale. A friend of mine (+boyfriend) is looking to sell her condo to buy a house. Ideally, the house would be in his name, but he can’t get a loan without her help. She can’t help him unless they are married.
We should just own up to it and get all tribal about it. Every father mans up and sells his daughter into a wealthy family with a good cow.
There are a other reasons to get married besides the financial ones. For one… green cards. If you want to live, work freelance, be the next Top Chef, you need to be married to an American. I knew a wardrobe stylist who found her green card husband on craigslist. People do these things. Also, if you were committing mass murders, the both of you can’t be tried for the same crime. You’d have an ally on the outside when you went all Orange is the New Black (btw: when is season 2 coming out?). Fun fact: there are 1,136 other federal benefits, rights, and protections to being married in the US.
Back to “the government is financially forcing you into nuptials” part. So I was me… watching Cosmos the other night (and you should be too) when ol’ Neil deGrasse Tyson mentions a smart French dude who did the math to figured out each loving couple must have 4 kids to keep the population going. Human life depends on it! To be more clear, this inflation in the kid to parent ratio is for those people who can’t have kids and those other people who hate kids.
Last time I checked having a kid can really suck the life out of you. It’s like losing a leg (and apparently winning the lottery at the same time). Say you are a country who has their Gross National Product to worry about. Here you are, big bad country of Y.O. of U., how do promote severing a perfectly good leg to make and raise little baby citizens? Same way you prevent a kid from throwing a tantrum in the toy aisle. Incentives. Chocolate flavored incentives? No. Money flavored. Offer citizens who just fell in love tax incentives to get married. They will be so starry eyed by their hormones, they will just agree to spending a lifetime of fidelity with one other person (even if they don’t fully mean it). First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the future workforce of your country in the baby carriage.
This is why the government doesn’t want gays to get married and could give a shit less about the divorce rate. Actually, the government’s panties are so in a wad about two dudes marching down a wedding aisle, they FORBID it. Why? Well, you can’t make a spark with two outlets. Two lesbians could never make the next Wall Street Stock Broker with identical equipment down there. Because of the resourcefulness of the gay community, certain freedoms, and free enterprise, same sex couples have found ways to acquire kids without governmental assistance, but not the tax break for having a nuclear family.
Mister Red and I are undecided on creating offspring, but we are leaning toward getting married sooner than later for financial purposes. We might just decide to Kobayashi Maru the government: get married, then NOT have kids. We get the tax break, but we won’t reward the man with future grocery baggers. Like we were sticking it to the government for the gays.
April 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Different stages of life can be marked by who is going to care enough about you to get their ass off the couch in the middle of the season finale of The Walking Dead to retrieve you from the hospital if you so happen to get something stuck inside your ear. Or worse. Kidney stones, heaven forbid.
Emergency contacts are essential at every stage of life. Just as you grow and change so do your emergency contacts. In my little life I have been to the emergency room for a broken wrist, getting an earring back stuck inside my ear, a kidney infection, an ovarian cyst disguised by abdominal pain and deadly gas (seriously, I think I killed a cat), a hematoma in my right tit, and hives the size of dinner plates. There may have been more, but those are the outstanding ones. Most of these instances I’ve had the pleasure of a trusted escort. In the case of the cyst on my lady bits and the tit hematoma an emergency contact needed to be called.
It’s a funny thing, staring at the blank spot on whichever form you obediently fill out. Who can you call? It almost laughs at you in times of transitions, defining you and who cares for you in that single moment. You can tell a lot about a person’s life by who they list as their emergency contact.
Ages 5 – 18: You’re listing your folks, legal guardian, or whoever is paying your bills. No one else you know can drive. And if they can, they don’t want to be anywhere near a hospital or know how to act calm in times of crisis. Plus, know one else really has that good of a tally of your wildest poops from the past 6 months.
Ages 19-23: Still listing your parents, huh? Better be at least living in the same state. My cyst situation made a call to my mother, who was a 13 hour car ride away. That lesson was learned the hard way, especially because the episode resulted in emergency surgery. Fortunately, I was 22, old enough to consent, but young enough to want my mommy and a stuffed animal. This is when you start to contemplate the practicality of your chosen urgent caretaker.
Ages 24-26ish: “Hey roomie! What’s your phone number again?” This bestie has held your hair when you’ve had too much Jameson, they will definitely come get you from the hospital bringing your favorite yoga pants and a variety of trashy magazines. My unfortunate boob bleeding called for my roommate. Actually she was my ex-roommate at the time, but nonetheless fulfilled her duty by driving to Beverly Hills past 11 on a school night just to keep me company before I went into surgery. That’s a good contact.
Ages 27ish-29ish: “Dear boyfriend I have been dating for a consecutive several months, can I put you down as my emergency contact? PLEEEEAASSSSSEEEEEE?!” This is a gamble. And it’s a dead give away that he’s in the trial period when you have to scribble out the first number you wrote because you don’t actually have his number memorized. Also, if you find out he’s still putting his sister down as his emergency contact… he’s just not that into you. In some cases this boyfriend turns into a fiancé or a different boyfriend all together. If you are co-habitating with a romantic partner, he had better come running to your side in a medical emergency. Otherwise you are wasting your youth on him. Also, that’s one phone number you should work on knowing by heart.
Ages 30ish-30somthingish: It’s probably your husband, or spouse, or maybe you say “partner.” However you label it, you are probably discussing very intimate things about bodily functions with them. This person should really be completely up to date on all physical and mental ailments and triumphs. This might be the first time someone has been this aware of your current health history since your mom helped you blow your nose.
Ages 30somthingish-40somethingish: This is where the divorce rate comes into play. You start listing sisters, brothers, mothers, and trusted neighbors again. “Thanks for letting me borrow your lawn mower again. So you don’t really travel that much, right?”
Ages 50something and beyond: The whole thing comes full circle and you are listing your kids again. Even if you get remarried, you can count on your kin the most, partly because you might not be so sure how long your spouse is going to last with that bad eye. And if your kids live close by, you can bother them all you want. They can’t escape you, and in some cases maybe they do have a catalogue of your finest shits from the past month.
Our lives fluctuate and these ages are just simply based loosely on my half assed observations in data entry, but I think we can infer that becoming someone’s emergency contact is a big deal, especially if you break up with them, but still list them as the go-to. Don’t forget to update these things or you could be left in the lurch on crutches when your ex leaves you stranded upon discharge.
The good thing is, we are at our healthiest when our emergency contacts are the least reliable and transient. Go forth 20-somethings find those few friends who will pick you up from the emergency room when you have a bladder infection spread to your kidneys. Who’s going to come with cranberry juice and your body pillow in tow? Does that special gentleman caller have the potential to push fluids while you recover from a wicked lower intestinal disruption? Who can you trust to dress a puncture wound? Who will drop everything to rush to your side when you get three stitches? Life is a series of tests and trials. You can’t go it alone.