June 30, 2015 § 1 Comment
I didn’t expect it, but I feel more married after the marriage equality announcement than I did after my wedding. I was sober for both, for the record.
There is nothing like waking up to good news. When my alarm sounded last Friday morning, I hit snooze. After the second snooze, my husband, Mister Red Jump Out of Bed, began his morning rituals. Half asleep I made my case for him to take the car to work instead of bike. He had been in a bike accident last summer, the bike needed repair, his back was recovering from injury, and after a full day of work his feet, an hour is a long bike home.
This must be the type of worry of a spouse. Well-being worry. How would I ever handle the worry of children, when I worry this much about a grown adult? To my relief he agreed, the pain risk of riding the bike was too great.
Still in bed, I read the news on my phone as Mister Red made us breakfast. Supreme Court Ruling the Constitution guarantees the right to same-sex marriage. I felt an uncontrollable smile swell up in my cheeks. Huzzah! Boo-yah! Woop-woop! Finally! At least we got one thing right! I ran downstairs to tell Mister Red the good news.
And the VMA for best on-screen kiss goes to…
Justice Kennedy said gay and lesbian couples had a fundamental right to marry. “No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family,” he wrote. “In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were.”
I feel this gives my own heterosexual marriage more validity. For me, marriage inequality hadn’t “preserved the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman,” but rather took away from it. If all loving partnerships weren’t recognized, and half of them didn’t work out, what was so great about marriage anyway? I never want to be part of a club that has such prejudice as sexual orientation. It doesn’t make any sense to limit fundamental rights based on those preferences. Wasn’t this whole country founded on the ideal that every person should have the right to their own preferences? We have so many freedoms, seems like who you choose to love should be a no-brainer.
What astonished me was how many corporate entities used the news to inflate their marketing campaigns. They had these specialized logos at the ready, but where was this support 8 years ago? I’m curious to find out how many of these companies actually donated to LGBT organizations fighting for civil rights, how much, and how long they’ve been supporting. In recent years, many companies donated whether they were vocal about it or not was not to make waves among consumers who’s ideals were in opposition. It makes me wonder what would have happened if these companies spoke louder. Business sure draws a fine line.
As I preach to the choir, I can only say that now I get it. Marriage that is. If those words are true, “two people become something greater than they once were,” then damn… I’m glad I’m on that list. I’m glad everyone, regardless of who and how they love, now has the right to be on that list. The extreme intimacy of this union can be enjoyed by all, making the power of finding the right person to join in this partnership infinitely greater. Who you argue with for the rest of your life should not be limited to heterosexuals.
With that being said, marriage becomes more about the person you choose to be with rather than the sexual orientation you identify with. This begs the question, will the divorce rate go up or down?
Doesn’t matter what the cake topper looks like #lovewins
February 3, 2015 § 1 Comment
If our ropes have not been tested for strength we would not know the threshold of our grace. It is through gritted teeth that we smile through the annoyance of arrogance and ignorance. At least that’s how pet peeves are made.
One of my pet peeves is when people want to have a discussion as I’m about to go into the bathroom. It’s like, “Come on, you know all I can think about is urine. How productive will this conversation really be?”
And another pet peeve is when people dare me to guess how old they are. Unprompted. I don’t want to guess. I know that’s a slippery slope.
I’m terrible at this game. I’m one of those people who wouldn’t be able to tell if you dyed your hair purple until three weeks too late. “Something’s different about you, but I can’t put my finger on it.” Same thing with weight gains and losses. Unless you really let it go, I’ll probably just think you got stung by bees. A lot of bees.
Not to mention age is a different beast all together. Take me for example, I look like I’m a good 6 or 8 years younger than I am, and my voice is probably 4 years younger than that. It’s true, as a 31 year old woman, I could pass for 24 if you didn’t look too closely at my crow’s feet (come on, eye cream). But I’m not going to prompt you to guess my Chinese astrology. That would be rude.
So I was me, minding my own business–literally, I was steps away from the bathroom. I had to pee, and I had been holding it for a bit. This was my escape. Then I was cornered by a challenger. “Seriously, how old do you think I am?” She asked, as if we had had a long conversation about it already. We didn’t.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to guess,” I said. This is always my response to the inquiry. I don’t ever lie or fib, and I could already tell my response was not going to be welcomed. I really wanted to pee instead. In fact, I was truly distracted by my brimming bladder, I couldn’t even come up with a ball park decade.
“No, really, guess how old I am,” she persisted. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. If I do guess and I guess too old, or too accurate, I’m an asshole. If I guess obviously too young to cover my ass, I’m clearly lying. No one wins this game.
“I can’t,” I said. I had only one thought. BATHROOM NOW.
“I’m not going to guess,” but you’re acting like a 4 year old, “you’re going to have to tell me,” because I don’t give a shit, I just want to relieve myself.
Boasting with the pride of a child who just lost their training wheels, I am finally allowed the answer. With a generous head nod and a big, fake W-O-W, I’m finally able to complete the last two steps behind the lavatory door. That was a close one.
“Age ain’t nothing but a number.” I once met an older man resembling Santa who wore a t-shirt that read that. Then I was strapped to his belly and jumped out of an air plane. It was the 400th time he’d been sky diving. It was my first.
I have to really think hard about age to give any number gravity. I want to honor it, the time, the climate, circumstances of the year of birth, old or young. Otherwise, I don’t consider it relevant to most discussions. If you are an adult living in the world today, we can have an ageless conversation. It is insulting to assume that I would not get a reference that dates 20 years ago. And if I didn’t, I would surely love to hear the explanation. Knowledge is power.
As for physicality, age is transient. We will never age like the generation before us. We age by how we take care of ourselves, armed by the science of our culture. 60 today does not look like the 60 of 30 years ago or 30 years into the future. We have things like sunscreen now, and we may be living on Mars soon.
Of course that doesn’t take away from the wisdom your years awards you. Or perhaps, the crazy you have developed over the years, but that varies from person to person and it would be truly ageist of me to generalize that all 90 year olds are bat shit. They aren’t. Just the challenging ones.
****As you might have noticed, I took last month for myself. You can find me posting new musings bi-weekly, and repeats on the off weeks. Mostly Tuesdays, or Wednesdays.
October 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
I really do adore Autumn. October is a pretty solid month. I enjoy the fall produce and taking part in Halloween activities. I like feeling the season change on my skin, and the Indian summer easing the chill upon us. It’s everyone else that’s really ruining things for me.
Yes, believe it. It’s October, the month that waits for no one. Why does October always seem to surprise people? Every year, “Can you believe it’s already October?!” Yes and what other month did you think came after September? October is a month made for annoying girls exclaiming stupid things. All month it’s idiocy. I blame pumpkin spice. It’s a drug for sure. The only thing I like pumpkin spice in is pie. I must be alien.
Fortunately for the boys, Football Season, Baseball Playoffs, Basketball Preseason and saving the ta-tas have the males pretty much distracted, the height of the fall ditziness goes unnoticed.
“I just love fall, gush, the colors.”
“I’m so excited to wear boots!”
“Pink, for promoting Breast Cancer.” And let me take this opportunity to remind you to think before you say things.
“We should totally go to that haunted maze, I can wear my new sweater!”
“Ugh, he didn’t get me anything for Sweetest’s Day.”
“I’m trying to hint diamond earrings for christmas.”
“Get me a grande skinny pumpkin spice latte with two splendas… You’re the best! Thank ewe!”
“I’m working out a lot this month so I can look hot in my halloween costume. It’s like a corset top and like these boots that go over the knee, super cute and not slutty at all.”
If I read one more Facebook status involving someone’s first pumpkin latte of the season, I might have to go punch a jack-o-lantern. Really, Starbucks? I can’t believe that many people are letting a corporate coffee house mark the moment they feel the autumnal spirit for the first time. Not to mention, who the fuck cares that you paid twice the price for a latte with several squirts of pumpkin sugar? Donate last seasons designer jacket to even out your karma. Fall really is great, sure, happy about it. The seasons, they need to change, I just don’t think I’d mark it with with a prefab mix prepared by a local hipster.
Which brings me to my next point. Fall really brings out the hipsters. Their cut-off skinny jeans and barely-there tanks really had them incognito during the summer, but as soon as the wind changes, out come the skinny jeans, combat boots and bad attitudes. My internet has been out, so I’ve been frequenting coffee shops to get work done, right at the fountain of the hipsters’ life-blood. I wouldn’t even ask a hipster to watch my computer while I go to the bathroom. I’ll pack it all up and lose my seat next to the outlet before I ask hipster enjoying their organic air. It’s scary movie season… not only would they fall pale at a thief, they are too busy planning multimedia art instillation based on Paranormal Activity 4.
And there is nothing I can’t stand more than a hipster with a pumpkin spice latte. I can’t even go there. Hating the establishment, dressing like they are homeless and purchasing marked up liquid flavoring with a shot of espresso and warm milk. Suddenly I’m reminded of the upcoming election as I gripe about the unfortunate beings we share this great country with. Maybe they will be too busy with October they won’t register to vote.
Two years ago I crafted this post, with midterms coming up and Pumpkin Spiced Candles in full force, it’s all relevant. Hope you enjoy the throwback. New one for next week!
July 1, 2014 § Leave a comment
People were taking selfies before smart phones. Before they were even called selfies. They were taking them before you could even tell what you were framing for. Most of the time you held out your arm as far as you could stretch and squeezed in real tight to the person next to you, just praying that you didn’t cut yourself off, or had your finger in front of the lens. Then you had to wind the damn clicky wheel for 10mins before taking a second shot for safety.
Pictures were for memories. Instant flashbacks to a happy day. This is why I enjoy the Throwback Thursday aka #tbt. It takes me back to a time when people didn’t waste good film on their food. I cringe every time I’m seated next to someone at a restaurant instagraming their meal. I’ll admit, I’ve taken part in this behavior, but it was before I realized how idiotic it was. There are only a few acceptable reasons to take pictures of your food.
1. You are a food photographer, it’s your job. You get paid for it.
2. For sentimental reasons others could not understand you need to share this picture with one or few individuals, in which case Snapchat is a useful tool.
3. You are ordered to by your nutritionist. No cheating.
Other than that, no one wants to see your food. Instead, savor the taste. Then work on your linguistics as you recall the meal. Try to use as many colorful adjectives as you can to more accurately describe the taste, smell, texture, and look of said memorable plate. I much rather hear a description of the best burger you ate than see a picture of it. Most food looks gross unless it’s dressed up for a photoshoot or super fancy already. And if you are at a super fancy restaurant, I’d say it would be a faux pas to take a quick snap shot of the amuse bouche.
As I was saying… Selfies, we’ve been doing it forever. Fascinated with our own features we’ve set forth on self-portraits of all kinds. Except now they’ve completely lost artistic integrity. There’s the selfie with the phone in the mirror, the serious selfie where the person is clearly not looking off contemplatively into the distance, and the belfie (butt selfie), which is apparently a picture you took of your own ass.
If the whole camera-lens-taking-a-bit-of-your-soul thing is true, we’ve screwed ourselves. I understand a healthy amount of narcissism is rather good. Helps your ego feel as though you have worth. If your self-esteem stocks are high you are a more productive and confident member of society. Instagram allows us to be photojournalists of our lives, creating a map of the places we’ve been and the people we know. Sure, selfies are going to be a part of that. But maybe we should limit it to only part.
I think it was only a year ago the first time I heard some one call this particular picture styling a “selfie.” I thought it was adorable. I don’t know if I thought it was adorable because I was under the impression that the quite hilarious person shooting the selfie made it up on her own, or if I genuinely thought it was a cute name for these half-assed pictures we were taking of ourselves. Unfortunately, as the media grew to exhaust it, the term lost all of it’s twinklely dust for me. When it was inducted into the dictionary, I rolled my eyes in disgust. It had become a novelty. Like those weird waving money cats in Chinatown.
Soon, I wanted to vomit every time I heard someone use it in a sentence. Fortunately for me, I surround myself with sarcastic people most of the time, so they would refer to it in jest and I could wash my puke down with laughter. Now I realize it’s just a really shitty picture you took of yourself. You look like crap because you can’t frame it up right. It’s way too close most of the time. And you have a hard time looking into the lens and smiling genuinely. Not only are you multitasking the holding the camera, pushing the button, and trying to be a model, but you are also looking at yourself in the little screen judging the picture before it’s even taken. Thus your selfie is the worst picture of you ever taken. Clearly, the shooter had some issues with the task.
Bottom line, you’ll get better results handing the camera off to someone else.
I like how, thanks to modern technology, we’ve managed to come up with a dual digital lens to help us frame our narcissism, but still cannot properly get rid of redeye. I always end up looking like the demon friend because of my blue peepers.
I would like to leave you with this thought, if you think it might be an inappropriate place to take a selfie. You should probably just leave the memory in your mind. Let’s be honest, it’s not called a “selfie” because of the wonderful scenery behind you.
Also, do not Google image search “selfie” just don’t.
In appropriate places to take a selfie: A funeral. Jail. In front of an arson. A hospital. Nasty public restrooms, or on the toilet, or in the shower. Actually just stay away from bathrooms in general. With the cop who just pulled you over. Auschwitz. The delivery room. A homeless shelter. Anytime you have been clearly crying your eyes out. At the dentist. Driving. After sex.
Anymore you can think of?
June 24, 2014 § 2 Comments
I’m 30 and a half this month, and although I was alright with it at first, it’s just now settling into some kind of fear. Here is a post about turning 30 I wrote right before I turned 28 (yea, I was worrying about it 2 years before it actually happened, possible head case over here). For some reason, recounting my adult tendencies (or lack of) is comforting. I think my thirties are going to be quite dirty after all.
30 isn’t all that bad, it’s just marks the end of the 20s. 30 means you’re farther away from collage and closer to grandchildren, farther away from high school varsity sports and closer to water aerobics, further away from leveling your parent’s liquor bottles with water and closer to discovering your kids put water in the vodka.
They say time speeds up and your metabolism slows down. They say in a blink of an eye you go from 30 to 40. It’s some sort of middle age time machine. Fortunately for my generation, 30 is the new 20 and with the current economic climate there isn’t much of a stigma anymore for living in your parent’s basement. However, no matter how young we feel or how powerful our denial is, you can’t fight the aging process. 30 will always represent a milestone for the perkiness of your ass and titties. And even though we like to cover it with the veil of the “new 20” by 30 you should really have your shit together.
I’m talking adult tendencies. Cooking a balanced meal for your party of one instead of just eating an entire box of cheese its for dinner. Not sleeping past 10am on a Saturday. Gardening. Home décor and having “colors.” Flossing. Knowing what gives you gas and avoiding those foods. Finally learning the importance of breakfast and that laundry will never ever be done. Packing your bags the night before. In fact, doing anything the night before. Saying ‘no’ to the third glass of wine on a Wednesday. Making your bed, everyday. Asking guests take off their shoes when they enter your house. Calling them ‘guests.’ Asking yourself, “is this outfit too slutty for me?” These things creep up on you. You’re doing it, being an adult.
You might eat the occasional Cosco-sized tub of hummus in a week or have a Tuesday morning hangover. Sometimes we have popcorn for dinner or forget to water the flowers. But we feel guilty about it. It’s not that we know better, because we’ve always known that flossing is a good thing and baked goods are a friendly gesture. It’s that we’ve put these adult tendencies into practice and now understand the benefits.
You actually feel good after eating vegetables and making a To-Do list. Everything’s more calculated. You do things just because you have to get up early the next day and you’re less likely to suggest shots at happy hour. You’re a planning machine. You have a planner that’s synced with your phone, your computer, there’s one on the wall, on your desk, in your pocket. You plan for the near future, you plan for the far future, you plan for your future bathroom breaks by purchasing toilet paper in bulk.
I hear it now, it’s ticking all right. People I know are getting married. People are on their second or third kids. Some people are even on their second husbands! You got to keep up with that clock. If you’re single you start getting serious about finding Mr. Right. Or you try to turn Mr. Right Now in to Mr. Right, which might not be too difficult if he has a 401K. You aren’t just circle-hearting your crush in your yearbook, you got to get on the internet and find a husband. Done are the years of sleeping past noon and eating ramen noodles. Done are the years of singing into your hairbrush and making eyes to your life-sized cardboard cut out of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Done are the years of putting soda in the Brita filter just to see what happens. You know what happens. It’s just brown water that tastes a little sweet. Face it, you’re a grown up. Well, maybe not a complete grown up, there is that beach party next week with a couple kegs. But it’s okay, you have adult tendencies: you don’t have to get up early and you’ll say no to the nut mix because it’ll give you gas.
May 27, 2014 § 2 Comments
This was originally posted 1/24/12, but with Basketball play-offs and baseball season what-have-you going on, I felt a reminder was in order.
I expect this from the guys, but ladies… this is an outrage, and it’s gone on for too long. You know what I’m talking about: long lines, clogged toilets, and bitches puking.
Sunday I spent some time at a sports bar. I actually like football, I wasn’t there to flirt with dude/bros in my extra small little boy’s jersey I cut up to show my cleavage. I wasn’t there to accompany Mister Red just to text the whole time then get into an argument ending in tears because he won’t leave at halftime. I was there to watch a couple of the most exciting football games of the year. I didn’t have to paint my face with the team symbol, sit on laps, or drink too many vodka tonics to enjoy myself. It’s fucking football, it’s awesome even in pajamas.
I’m getting off topic. This isn’t about the spray tanned queens with half their butt cheeks hanging out (you know who you are). This is about a public facility in an establishment that offers alcohol. You will never see bathrooms in the Natural History Museum looking like the cesspool most bars do two hours after opening. It’s the Ladies room, you should act like one.
Lady (noun) can be defined as: a courteous, decorous, or genteel woman. This is not someone you have to follow into the lavatory armed with a plunger and wearing safety goggles. Why does it look like wild beasts have been using the same toilets as five foot nothings in pink chiffon? You tell me.
I’d like to discuss some preventative measures in an effort to make bathroom breaks after a couple cocktails more rewarding for everyone across the board.
1. Stop clogging the toilets! Sometimes drinking a lot of beer makes you shit, but I hardly beleive these skinny bitches are each laying dumbo sized deuces stopping up every available john in the place. I’m all for being sanitary and laying delicate pieces of toilet paper down for your expensive yoga tush to rest on seems like the best option, but most septic tanks can’t handle the volume. You do chair pose for a reason. Now put it into practice and SQUAT! Or hover, whichever you prefer. You’re going to be working off your drinking calories, keeping your ass clean, respecting the future intermissions of other women, as well as trimming your piss time for those waiting behind you. Which brings me to my next point…
2. Don’t hold up the line! The buddy system is great for most things, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been relieving my bladder in private since I was two. I don’t need any help with this one. I will never understand how two people going into one stall makes the task “really quick.” Especially because I can hear every word of your conversation and know that one of you has her pants down. “Gasp! I love that thong! I have the same one in black.”
3. Don’t be gross. If you are old enough to drink you know that it sucks when you drink too much. What sucks even more is drinking too much in public. Drunk and Disorderly citations exist for a reason and should be handed out to every lightweight who cuts the line, and holds up the line (#2) because she can’t handle her liquor or her emotions. This also clogs the toilet (#1). No one wants to dodge the kamikaze barbie because she “forgot to eat” before she guzzled 12 tequila shots. Not disposing of your feminine hygiene products properly also falls into this category. If you are old enough to get your period, be a woman and take care of it.
4. Don’t be bitchy. You never know who’s standing next to you or in the stall. It’s okay you can smile and laugh, we’re all in the same shitty situation doing the same dirty deed. You can’t be that up tight if you are out to clog a toilet.
5. Check yourself, don’t wreck yourself. Mirror is there for you to make sure you don’t have lettuce in your teeth, not recreate your entire primping ritual. This includes making everyone else uncomfortable as you complain about your thighs. If you felt self-conscious you should have worn a little more than a washcloth and some pasties.
6. Freely warn others. If you come out of a bathroom that is without toilet paper or has been defecated beyond comfort, give the the next gal a heads up. Please note #4 and add a joke to ease tension. It’s okay to talk to strangers when you are being nice.
7. Lady in the street, freak in the bed. You know what I mean. I don’t want to piss where you just had sex. I’m going to hover, after all. And if you really need that quickie, use the Men’s, they are less likely to talk shit about your slutty behavior behind your back.
8. Wash your hands, and dispose of waste. Kindergarteners have more sense and courtesy. Throw away your used paper towel. You know it doesn’t belong on the ground. Have some respect. Someone will eventually have to clean up this mess, you spoiled brat.
9. Keep it in the sink. This is not the time nor the place for a water fight. This counter, I’m going to want to put my purse up here while I wash my hands and put on lip gloss. However, after your private wet t-shirt contest I can’t. It’ll ruin my vintage Gucci. This may be the local watering hole, but you are not an animal.
10. For god sakes, flush! Enough said.
Alright Smarty Snatches, I’m going to ask you to respectfully, and sincerely to tweet, retweet, post, repost, share and share again. And all those other internet things you do. This is a serious issue, girls. Things are starting to look worse than a gas station restroom at a rest stop that doesn’t have running water. It’s the Ladies room, you should act like one.
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.