If it wasn’t clear by the lack of posts over the last year, it seems that my time here with Dear Tina has come to an end. I can’t decide if it seems like eons ago, or just yesterday, that I started this adventure. Either way, it was an amazing experience that made a significant difference in the way I think about myself both personally and professionally. Though I never heard back from you, I still felt an odd connection to you and hope that at some point in the future you do stumble upon this and read it with enthusiasm. Maybe not the Gossip Girl posts, but everything else.

Of course, it’s never all bad news as the truth of the matter is, I am simply moving on to a new project: a blog I am co-writing with my sister Maggie! You may remember her as the project manager of this site, so hopefully you’ll see me actually follow deadlines this time around. Also, the grammar will likely improve since I have a full-time peer editor on staff!

After two years and 252 posts, I am happy to say goodbye and thank you for reading! Please continue to do so over at Thanks For Asking! I swear you’ll love it just as much!

http://thanksforaskingblog.wordpress.com/

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Elisa: You over-analyze everything with your big head!
Jack: Well you have big boobs.
Elisa: Which you’ll NEVER touch again!!
Jack: This conversation has taken an unfortunate turn.

Let’s just forget the 4 months happened. I have turned into one of those schmoes who makes promises of grandeur that neglect the simple truth that I have a lazy and easily distracted brain. What else can I say? So we move on.

Since we last checked in with one another, you released your first book, announced you are pregnant with your second child, and received an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Lead Actress for the fifth year in a row.

I read your first book, became eligible for food stamps, and received a bladder infection.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other, really.

To add a positive spin on things, I finally landed a job at the end of March that, while it may not pay much, it certainly has had the positive effect of giving me a reason to get out of bed before 10 and a consistent means of paying rent. My life this past winter was a little JonathanLarsononian, what with all the sing-wallowing and trash can fires. I’m working as an assistant at a talent agency and so far the experience has served to remind me that my instinct to abandon Acting after I graduated with a degree in said concentration was the right one. One of my responsibilities is to tape potential new talent reading a side we have provided to get a sense of their style. Lucky them, they also get me as their reader. While I try to offer my years of training to the task, my delivery comes across about as thoughtful and natural as it did when I was 18 and cast as a dillusional, middle-aged, German fortune teller (That one just kept getting better and better. Vasse!). During these sessions, I get so nervous that I’ll misread the action lines and start fake crying when I should be fake laughing, that I generally bury my nose in the pages, making me about as useful a scene partner as an audio book.

Not that this makes me unqualified for the job, as a majority of my responsibilities take place at my desk. There I answer phone calls, email a sundry of industry people *wink, wink, handshake, handshake*, and go through the mail, tossing out headshots and resumes of the little babies who were thoughtful enough to put together a mailing. It’s not my fault! We don’t represent kids!

I have to say I love it. Not just because when I go out at night and people ask me what I do, I no longer have to say “Ohh I’mm kindddaaaa freelancingg right nowww? I love it!”, but also because I work with an eclectic group of people who may be even sassier than me. And nothing keeps me grounded and motivated quite like sass.

I must say it’s been a healthy four months, with a major check completed on the Cath Career To-Do List. Looking to the future, I am adding “Earn more than I spend” and “Don’t answer the phone with food in my mouth” to the list. Just to keep me focused.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Cerie: You can have a career at any time, but you only have a really short period when you can be a young, hot mom. If you wait too long, you could be, like, 50 at your kid’s graduation.
Liz: 50′s not that old, Cerie.
Cerie: Oh, I’m sorry… Are you 50 now?

There are a few things to go over here. All related to St. Patrick’s Day. An expired topic, really, considering today is March 20. But now that I have had time to reflect on these epic series of events, I thought I might share.

Like many Irish American citizens and citizens with an appreciation for socially condoned drinking before noon, I celebrated the great Saint Patrick the Saturday before the actual holiday. My knowledge of the origin of St. Patrick’s Day grew exponentially when about a year and a half ago I decided to ask my dad “What is the origin of St. Patrick’s Day?” Not unlike the time I asked my dad why we celebrate Easter. I was a sophomore in high school at the time and I had gleefully been hunting for plastic eggs around the house my whole life. Little did I know there was something even more miraculous than finding an egg in the bathroom potpourri that happened that day.

Since that conversation, I have learned that what we Irish have to thank Saint Patrick for is bringing Christianity to Ireland. In fact, it was the shamrock that Patrick used to illustrate the Holy Trinity to the people of Ireland. So as I traveled to a meeting at 9:30 in the morning the Saturday before the blessed day, I was tempted to ask one of the many girls representing Ireland by adorning her face with shamrock stickers, if she knew the significance of her decor. I didn’t because most of these girls were either clapping loudly or focusing a great deal on making sure their eyes weren’t already crossing at this early hour. I am not so far past my college days that I don’t understand the desire to be highly intoxicated at an hour that will inevitably lead to a nap by 1:30 PM, but what I don’t understand, and never really have, is the need to wear this while doing so:

Come on people. No one, I mean no one, looks good with this thing on. Not even the seven year olds at 4th of July celebrations for who they are intended. And while on this particular day, they are usually worn by men or women who want to leave the impression that they are so drunk they accidentally left the house wearing something SILLY!….I tend to believe that it was carefully laid out the night before alongside their shamrock pajama pants, in the case of men, and for the women, next to their cut-off denim shorts paired with kelly green tights. This isn’t about making smart fashion choices, it’s about not being a moron. Why don’t you just wear  hat that says “If I’m not acting disorderly now, follow me around for 5 minutes with your plastic handcuffs at the ready.”

On a similar note, women, as eager as we all are to wear green, this does not necessarily need to include your eye shadow. We get it. You’re not necessarily Irish, but you are definitely drunk. Even if you were to just wear a small green pin, we would get it. Boarding the train screaming to the rest of your posse (is that what the kids are calling it these days?) in a manner that would leave us with the impression you have just come out of a surgery that unhinged your jaw, is clue enough as to your intentions for the day.

What did I do on St. Patrick’s Day Saturday Edition you ask? I puked in the newly dyed green Chicago River by 9 AM and then went to Walgreens to purchase new stickers to replace the ones that had fallen off during the upheaval. No, I jest. (But I bet if all of Chicago read this blog, at least one young lady would have responded “Ohmygodmetoo!”) Like I said earlier, I had a meeting that kept me out of the bars until about 12:45. Eventually I arrived at the location where my friends had been holding down a table for over 3 hours. My friend Lara assured me she had only had a few beers so I would have no trouble catching up. I found this hard to believe considering all the extra vowels she used in a text coaxing me to where she was (ie Caaaaaaaaathyyyyyyyyyyy). I joined them as soon as I got off the train as I’ve never really minded being the soberest in a bar. It makes up for the times I’ve fallen asleep in a booth. As soon as I got there, they informed me there was a woman walking around the bar without a bra on. Not really a selling point for me, but not necessarily a deal breaker. I learned shortly after that, that the woman’s bra had broken while she was there and much to my chagrin, but not her husband’s, it was unfixable. My friend had tried to assist in the fixing of the bra so the woman was eternally grateful and decided to hand down some truly priceless marriage advice. I use all caps to indicate volume. “MARRIAGE IS FUCKING HARD AND ANYONE TELLING YOU DIFFERENT IS LYING. THEY’RE FUCKING LYING. EVERY NIGHT I’M LIKE ‘I WANT A DIVORCE’ AND THEN I WAKE UP AND I’M LIKE, NEVERMIND. WHEN HE PISSES ME OFF I JUST PUNCH HIM! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. IT’S SO FUCKING HARD.” Ahh, the dream.

Later in the afternoon, an Irish gentleman (I love this holiday the most because the men with accents just come out of the woodwork) told my friends and I we needed to stand up on the benches lining the walls, rather than sit on them, in order to have enough room for a makeshift stage. As it turns out, this man was an Irish dancer pimp of sorts, as he paraded out a whole gaggle of dancers for the bar to be entertained by. The age range of this group maxed out at maybe 17 or 18, but started at about 6, which made me extremely uncomfortable. They did, however, dance to The Departed soundtrack, so I took that as a sign I should call my boyfriend (it’s one of his favorite movies) and hold my phone a mere three inches from the speaker. Clear as a bell, I’m sure. Never been so happy to hear from me.

Shortly after, we left and began to wander. My friend ran into a kilted man on the street and lifted his skirt to reveal his underwear-less lower half. The fact that women are allowed to do this without being thrown through a window, as a man might be were the situation reversed, I think evens the score for women who like to complain that when men sleep around they’re players and when women do it they’re whores. I say it’s worth it.

We met up with other friends who had spent the morning in a different neighborhood. After I showed my ID to the bouncer at the bar they were at, I was led into an average size event tent. As I continued to walk, I found myself in another tent. And then another. Three tents. No bartenders. Here’s the thing. While bars may be inclined to maximize their capacity on a day like this, it doesn’t count when you place us all in a similar setup to the livestock auction I attended, literally, in Ireland. When we finally found our friends they were waiting in line to enter the actual bar to get a drink/sandwich. The line was moving fairly aggressively and as I turned around Lara’s impatience and hunger had grown, and she said she needed to leave to get food. It all happened so fast. I was being pushed further and further along into the bar and farther away from her. I too was hungry, but I couldn’t figure out where she said she was going fast enough. The pressure was mounting. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but instead of choosing between my two children, I was choosing between Lara and a beer.

Shortly after that, I was standing inside with an ice cold beer in hand, chatting away.

When my friend’s sister has mustard spilled on her pants (the worst) we all knew it was time to go and half of us re-met up with Lara, who was thankfully still alive. At this point I was too aware of the fact that all I had eaten that day was a granola bar and was on a mission to get some sustenance inside me. Earlier Lara had been squawking via text message (it’s a skill no one else I know has) about how she was eating at “Tina Fey’s restaurant.” To my sister, she squawked she was at “Tina Gey’s restaurant” in a way that was not passively aggressively insulting, but more a reflection on how blurred her Blackberry keyboard had become. What she was trying to say was that the bar they were at, Glascott’s, was attached to the Athenian Room, a restaurant you, Tina, have apparently noted as your favorite in Chicago. Thrilled, I crossed the bar and into the restaurant. I wasn’t feeling the lamb kabobs so I went with the cheeseburger. Never has anything tasted so I good. Good recommendation Tina.

The night ended at a bar back in our neighborhood and the atmosphere was kind of like if you threw a party in a dumpster in your alley. When we made the educated decision to leave, we dropped by the local McDonalds. So the girl who had only had a granola bar in over nine hours, suddenly had a cheeseburger and fries and chick nuggs and fries resting not so calmly in her stomach. A horse could have confused my internal organs with a salt lick. As a citizen of Ireland (a fact I’ll trot out on any day of the year), I feel proud to have honored by heritage on March 12 with green Budweiser and McNuggets.

When March 17 rolled around, the actual St. Patrick’s Day, I had kind of lost my fervor for all things green. I had co-hosted a ladies night on Tuesday that involved five regular bottles of wine and 2 1.5′s for six people, so I certainly wasn’t itching to have any more celebrations sponsored by booze that week. I spent St. Patrick’s day with my main squeeze, celebrating what some might consider a trite anniversary of six months together. But I found it delightful. Plus we had Italian, which blows corned beef out of the water.

Part of me looks forward to the day when I, like my mom, say to those much younger than me “What day is it? Saturday? Oh that’s that day you kids drink all day long isn’t it? Oh I can’t imagine.” Contrary to the way I have formatted this quote, my mother is not 86. But I can sense myself maturing out of the loud mouth-ery that accompanies this celebration, which is a good thing, especially for my fellow bitter CTA riders. It also prevents me from being one of the four girls my sister’s friend saw on a street corner at 8:30 in the morning Saturday, wasted, wearing green Snuggies. Ahh, youth.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Jack: Every organization needs new blood once in a while.  Like Hank Hooper says in his new book (“In the Hoop”) “New blood is the life blood of every company’s blood.” He’s not a strong writer.

Although it might not be clear based on my writing as of late, I do want to make note that I have not lost my zest for television viewing. Despite the fact that in recent months when I do manage to blow the symbolic dust of the old blog and write a post, I tend to focus more on the personal goings-on in my life, I still devote a good portion of my evening to my most reliable friend, televison. Honestly, I think my palate has only expanded with all this free time on my hands, introducing myself to such gems as Bang For Your Buck on HGTV and I Used to Be Fat on MTV. With regards to the latter, I find I can only really enjoy the episodes chronicling young women as it has come to my attention that while women may stress too much about the fat pouring out of their heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, men like to describe their overweight physique as “out of shape.” Hmmm, yes, out of shape. I always sensed it was your inability to do five push-ups in a row, and not the ten beers you’re currently drinking, that was tipping your BMI into the danger zone. Sorry boys, can’t relate on that one.

Anyway, I love TV. Now and forever. I have even been a consistent, and might I say very patient, viewer of The Bachelor this season. Unless you have been living UNDER A ROCK (!), you know that this season we are getting reacquainted with Texan charmer, Brad Womack. Brad is most famous for already being on this show. Booph. Yes, back in 2007 when Brad was given his first opportunity to date 25 women, he couldn’t manage to pick one and ended up turning down both finalists. Brad quickly became, as Bachelor producers have reminded us more than a dozen times during the current season, the most hated man in America. At least by the women who had enough time and emotional instability to generate hate and anger towards a man they had never met.

I never understood what the big deal was. So he didn’t choose anyone? You know who gets dumped all the time? Women. And men. Yet, when it happens on a reality show that promises happily ever after we feel personally cheated. Lest you forget that in 14 seasons of The Bachelor, not one relationship has lasted. So cheers Brad, for making the most level-headed decision of any of your predecessors.

But now you’re back on the show with the same intentions so…you’re an idiot.

At the start of the season we had Brad reminiscing about his troubled past. Reminiscing while not wearing a shirt and tossing around a football with…himself. What details were hiding in the emotional trenches of his brain causing him to reject all the women handed to him on a platter? After three years of intense therapy, I sense Brad still might not know. But with a hefty paycheck in his hands from ABC, Brad feels ready to date again, ready to get back on the horse and go through the extremely difficult rigmarole of dating two dozen women who were willing to bet when they applied for the show that no matter who the bachelor was, they would be able to fall in love with him. Brad has approached season 15 with a whole new attitude. One that I believe reflects an addendum to his contract stating, whether he likes it or not, he has to pick someone at the finale.

The season has been filled with your typical crazies and duds (I long for Creator Mike Fleiss to produce a season filled with skeptical and sarcastic women who openly mock the bachelor everytime he self-awarely takes his shirt off. A girl can dream.). Michelle was a particular treat and a particular kind of crazy. A hairstylist from Utah with an affinity for earrings larger than her face, she was everything a classic reality star manipulator should be. A woman with the looks to make a man think he wants her, yet whose personality is a teetering balance of sultry pouting and insanity.

My personal favorite contestant still in the running is Emily. A woman who would win this competition any season she chose to participate. Over the years, I haven’t been a consistent Bachelor viewer per se, yet I still feel confident saying that never has a bachelor been so tightly wrapped around a woman’s finger, as Brad is with Emily. While the world around her is chaos created and fed by the jealousies and insecurities of her competition, Emily sits patiently, batting her eyelashes, and treating Brad as if he were simply trying to pick her up at the grocery store. “Sure I’ll go on a date with you,” she thinks, “but I do need to get home and put the milk away first. If you don’t mind.”

How does she do it? Well first of all, she’s stunning. Unlike Michelle, she has the kind of looks that make other women go “Ugh and I bet you’re really nice too.” Second of all, she has the sympathy story to trump all sympathy stories. A single mom of a five year old, who lost her fiancee (and father of the baby) only days before she found out she was pregnant. A story she was reluctant to tell Brad as she didn’t want it to overshadow their courtship. Nor does she want him to use it as an excuse to pay her any special attention. Third of all, she’s an event planner at a children’s hospital. Why don’t you just go knit sweaters for the homeless and coordinate with Mattel on how to improve Barbie’s looks based on your headshot. Oh and I discovered via a blog that most of the clothes she wears on the show are from Target. So she’s thrifty too. Oh Emily, you are a model of flirtatious fun for us all.

Brad is already down to three women. Chantal O., who failed to mention the extreme wealth of her family as well as her extreme tendencies toward crying sponsored by neurotic jealousy. Ashley, the subject of conversation for two women riding the El a couple months ago, stating that Ashley is not a dentist as she is listed, but merely a dental hygenist. You’re not fooling me Ashley. And then Emily, who will only lose if that’s what she so chooses.

Brad has stated several times that he has not made the same mistake twice. That this time, he is without a doubt head over heels in love with his choice. Although, with that being said, maybe he is going with himself again. Ya burnt! I wish him the best, I do. After all, he isn’t the sharpest tool in the box; he needs a woman around to remind him that he has, yet again, left his mouth agape.

Fantasy suites and lots of jungle cats next week. They’re heading to South Africa!

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Carol: I’m in Lambert, St. Louis. I can see the arch from here. No wait that’s a half burned downed McDonalds.

As we get older, we inevitably learn from our past mistakes. Glitter nail polish is almost impossible to remove so why bother, fat free cheese does not help you lose weight but it does give you horrific stomach cramps, and purchasing a garment with the notion that it will fit perfectly once you lose five pounds, practically guarantees that said garment will hang in your closet for eight months until you realize that day is never coming and you offer it to your more slender friend.

We are less inhibited as we get older–at least we should be. We don’t worry so much about what our dance moves look like when out with our girlfriends, because good or bad, they are guaranteed to attract the kind of man whose name we won’t and shouldn’t remember. We wear what flatters our figures and reflects our taste and not what exposes the most skin for the cheapest price. We even begin to troll for temporary and life partners in appropriate settings (meaning before 1 am and while our vision is still fully alert).

What a nice idea, mental growth increasing at the same rate as physical growth. What doctors and our parents always yearned for. I was on the right track myself. Sometimes, when feeling really encouraged by my 24 years on Earth, I would even make myself a salad for dinner. However, life took a turn for the worst Saturday, February 12. I attended a surprise birthday for a friend of mine and I was eager to get the party started as I was surrounded by many a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile. I had a personal theory that “socializing” with only wine would be cause for future problems as it always leads to the worst hangovers and the most slurred “s” words. So brilliant me, decided to create a rotation: wine beer wine beer wine beer wine. Beer. And that was before we left the house. I don’t need to get into dirty details but lets say once I was released into the wild, vodka and tequila followed. I’m not proud of my choice. It lacked maturity and foresight, two things I pride myself on when I am in the state of mind that allows me to repeat my phone number without stopping to think about it. But it happened.

The next day, I went through the seven stages of Hangover.

1. Denial: I don’t feel bad! This is funny! And fun! Remember all those funny and fun things we did last night? (Symptoms: blood alcohol level is likely still at an over-the-limit percentage)

2. Pain and Guilt: Extreme nausea. The kind of nausea that when asked to sit in a Buffalo Wild Wings for an entire college basketball game (as I was), the only thing that can slightly relieve your pain is envisioning what a bed with a pillow must feel like right about now. Also, guilt. Guilting the others for feeling well enough to eat, even something as bland as tortilla chips.

3. Anger and bargaining: Anger toward the doofuses who appeared to not only be enjoying the game they were watching, but also the alcoholic beverages they were consuming. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? Bargaining with my own body, a promise to my stomach that if it manages to keep all of its insides on the inside, I will reward it with a nap and a chicken nugget. Which sounded really good at the time.

4. Depression, reflection and loneliness: The depression came shortly after I went through a McDonalds drive-thru for some chick nuggs and fries, and realized that the consumption of only half a nugget was going to cause a mild erruption from my mouth. Epic fail. Reflection in my curiosity for what exactly took place the night before. I was told something about my dance moves. I can only imagine what they looked like based on what I normally keep tucked away in my arsenal. And loneliness. Because after I sobered up at Buffalo Wild Wings, I drove myself to my bf’s home accepting the fact that as soon as I arrived I would need him to remain at least ten feet away from me in order to have the mental capacity to maintain my basic bodily functions. As my father used to say when he came home from work on exceptionally hot summer days, “it’s too hot to touch.”

5. The Upward Turn: Well for me, in my normal experiences with bottle flu, this comes after a nice long nap. In this instance, it came on Thursday. So….if we want to look at this positively, yes I began to see the light. After having to spend Valentine’s Day alone, due to my illness, and get reaquainted with a lifestyle that requires 12-16 hours in bed or on the couch (that part wasn’t so hard), the upward turn came when I realized this hangover may have turned into another problem.

6. Reconstruction and working through: After being treated to a wonderful make-up Valentine’s Day at a local Mexican restaurant, and feeling the urge to vomit after one bite of a chicken taco, I thought it time to take my life back and conquer this thing for good. Medicine was taken. I can’t get into specifics. But after five days of channeling Linda Blair, I believe my body was released of its toxins.

7. Acceptance and Hope: Since the dreaded night of February 12, I have returned to good old sensible me, consuming enough “socializing” to validate a hot dog at 3 am, but not so much that I don’t floss before bed (true story).

So what is the lesson here? I don’t know. If you want to take a shot, try not to make it two, and try not to make it straight tequila followed by  straight vodka, preceded by vats and vats of that which is not liver-approved. I did venture out of the house this past Saturday night. We went to a bar filled with 21 year olds and “21 year olds.” I felt like their babysitter. It was cute to see them self-conciously lipsynching to Ke$ha and, even worse, Ludacris. But I certainly wasn’t nostalgic for my college days when I, as on this night, used a bathroom covered in broken glass, toliet paper, and a variety of unidentified liquids. Nor the days when I would not have learned my lesson from the weekend prior. I kept myself at a three drink minimum once at the bar: liver and wallet friendly!

In truth, going out and celebrating with alcohol can be a great time; it is, afterall, designed that way for us level-headed adults. But too much of a good thing is, well, a bad thing. After all, I’m not the type of person who needs to drink to come out of my shell. Moving forward, as I grow from my past mistake, the key will be to refrain from drinking so much that people wished they had a shell to contain my overly enthusiastic gesticulations. Best of luck on your future endeavors.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Liz: That would only be a problem if I had any flaws.
Jack: Not only is your fly open, but there’s a pencil sticking out of it.

So far today I have watched 3 episodes of Newlyweds (circa 2003) and applied for 1 job. I have heated up 4 homemade chicken meatballs and baked approximately 15 sweet potato fries. I have made 1 trip onto the porch to see if the disgusting smelling cheese I threw out there Saturday night was still there. And I made 2 phone calls proclaiming my boredom to the only ear who feels obligated to listen.

I think that can be chalked up to a productive day, yes? And for those wondering, the cheese was not there. Either my roommate threw it away, or a really strong pigeon picked up the garbage bag holding the cheese in an unbeknownst-to-him suicide mission. Seriously, that smell. It will kill you.

This past week has been an interesting one, filled with a blend of productiveness and messiness. Not in terms of, like, an unmade bed (uh, dur), but in terms of my attempt to move away from the career options I had established for myself in 2008. (Further suggestions on how to do this more efficiently can be sent to blogdeartina@gmail.com. Employment Contract attachment preferred if Tina Fey is responding directly). You see, the problem is that some of us leave college knowing exactly what we want to do with the rest of our lives. And we feel incredibly lucky to have such a strong sense of self after spending the last four years incorporating afternoon naps into our daily regimen. Like preschool. Then we enter the real world (meaning moving back in with our parents–also kind of like preschool) and apply for entry level positions that list under qualifications, 2+ years of experience. So suddenly, the life we have carved out for ourselves isn’t really an option. Not because we wouldn’t be good at it, but because 300 people stand before us who would also be good at it. And at least 10 of them know the president of the company. Because he’s their uncle.

Now we have to think in terms of what we know and who we know, instead of what we want. I know I can answer phones politely, so why not put my plans of becoming a Casting Director aside, and focus on a career in customer service? I have a knack for general desk organization, so why not be a sales associate at Staples? We completely alter the career we were so sure would make us happy in order to convince an employer, any employer, that we would be just as happy and just as successful in their business.

The truth of the matter is, it can be a good thing. Rewarding, even, to acknowledge that you do not have to pigeonhole yourself into one industry simply because that’s what you said you wanted two years ago, or because your resume reflects only one area of expertise. When times become desperate, that’s when we realize that our idea of the perfect job doesn’t necessarily exist, at least not at the moment. Instead, we begin to peruse options that have potential to be perfect. And that potential lies in what all careers aim to provide, self-worth.

While making the adjustment, and continuing to sift through new options as they present themselves, one must always acknowledge that even on the most aimless, boring, anxiety-ridden days, something is bound to make you laugh, smile, or snart (that’s for you, Tina). Here is a list of the ten best things that have happened to me in the last week.

10. I mastered the recipe for spinach and feta chicken meatballs. And it was easy too—hence the mastering. I’ll pass along the recipe. I warn you, they have a bit of a kick to them. Especially if you don’t measure the spices, and instead pour mounds of them into your hand thinking you’re Rachel Ray.

9. I overcame my fear of playing after-dinner games with people who I have never played games with before. I have a simultaneous fear of becoming too competitive and appearing too dumb. Both were a non-issue as we were playing the television version of “Scene It” and I was able to calmly (and correctly) reply that it was Pamela Anderson who was the bombshell-turned bodyguard star of V.I.P.

8. I mentioned I watched Newlyweds right? Disc 1, season 1. And what a treat it was. I’m going to mail this disc to Vanessa Minnillo and Eric Johnson. I don’t think they realize what they’re getting into.

7. Upon hearing an incredibly loud crashing noise coming from upstairs, my main squeeze’s response: “He just fell down the stairs made of pots and pans.” Hilar. Still laughing.

6. Burned the roof of my mouth. On delicious bruschetta I over-reheated. Could be a wash, but tie always goes to bruschetta.

5. Re-configured my resume so that potential employers understand that when I say I was a sound board operator, what I’m really trying to tell them is that I supported the Stage Manager in all areas concerning scheduling, production progress, safety, and company requests. This isn’t a lie, it’s just the old version of my resume really highlighted the sound board.

4. By the weekend’s end I had seen 9 out of the 10 films nominated for Best Picture. True Grit is the only one left so by the time the Oscars air I’m sure I will have seen…9 out of the 10 films nominated for Best Picture.

3. My flat iron that appeared to be broken, was not broken after I left it alone for a few days. Thank you Chi company. Now I won’t have to worry about spending another $100 on your product, and instead I can focus on paying for electricity.

2. I visited with some long-lost friends, and some friends I see all the time. One even provided our apartment with the package of toilet paper I had requested. After that we were able to put the napkins back in the kitchen.

1. I was introduced to Agnes.

The saving grace of Despicable Me is that it was not produced by DreamWorks, as I feared. Sorry Steven, but your film company tends to value the size of the star they can convince to voice their characters over actual quality of story.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Liz: This is exactly the kind of thing that happens when there’s no order, no planning.  Hitler and Martha Stewart would have hated that wedding.

I think I’ll just go add Bonnie Franklin’s I Hate To Exercise, I Love to Tap to my Netflix Queue

Also, this is neat.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Liz: Well she has a point. I was reading the new Malcolm Gladwell New Yorker piece on my kindle.
Jack: Did you really read that?
Liz: No I did not.

Now that I’ve given everyone else 24 hours to speak candidly and judgmentally about the Golden Globes, I’d like to offer my own perspective (He should see you! You’re somethin’ to see!). For all that are up in arms and bowlegged over the antics performed by host Ricky Gervais, I beg the question, what did you expect?

Aside from the obvious complaint that celebrities need to have a better sense of humor about themselves, I am more aggravated with the commoners who are sympathetic to their cause.  Take Los Angeles Times Television Critic Mary McNamara, who was horrified by Gervais’s antics. She writes, “Gervais started off with a shot at Hollywood piñata Charlie Sheen — “It’s going to be a night of partying and heavy drinking, or as Charlie Sheen calls it — ‘breakfast’” — and then quickly moved on to less obvious and more dangerous targets.” Less Obvious? More Dangerous? Of course one of the dangerous targets she is referring to is this woman:

Honestly, are we so protective of the fragile skin of our entertainers (I use the term loosely with Ms. Jolie, whose movie selection process appears to be motivated by how sensuously dangerous her mouth will look on the movie poster), that we curse the only comedian willing to call them out–to their faces–for their mediocre contributions to American cinema?

The moment Ms. McNamara is referring to occurred when, after listing a slew of 3D films that hit the big screen this year, Gervais made the following crack:

It seemed like everything was three dimensional this year. Except the characters in The Tourist.

Now, despite Ms. McNamara’s complaints that these “A-list darlings” were unfairly mocked, I must remind her of a similar (less clever) quip on the same subject. Brought to you by her very own employer, The Los Angeles Times:

Because neither Depp nor Jolie bring real juice to the proceedings, it is left to the supporting characters to provide what energy the film has…They do their best, but they swim against a tide of lethargy that will not be denied.

So what is the difference here? One is a paid critic and one is a celebrity? Is that what we’re upset about? Celebrity on celebrity crime? Or the fact that someone made the critique in the same room where the subjects were sitting? Spare me your feelings. Spare me your sympathies. Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie made a total stench of a movie. If you can’t stand the heat, move to France. You both own homes there, remember?

At the end of the day, when you do something careless and embarrassing, people will make fun of you. I sometimes run into a wall on my way to the bathroom. Angelina and J.D. did the acting version of that. The best way to get through life is to accept early on that when you’re caught with your pants down, metaphorically or literally, people get to laugh.

The awards themselves were dull as the winners were all exactly who we thought they would be. In fact, while I’m on my soap box, I’ll mention the only moments that felt genuinely entertaining were when Gervais was on stage.

Tied for first place for my favorite joke of the night are when Gervais introduced one of the first presenters of the evening with, “Please welcome Ashton Kutcher’s dad, Bruce Willis!” and my mother asking when she saw Justin Bieber, in a non-joking tone, “How old is he? Ten?” (She used to like to predict the dialogue on Step By Step and when she was right, she would announce “I should write for Hollywood!” I think she had a point…)

In order to help those that were truly offended by Ricky Gervais’s comedic stylings see things from perspective, I offer a list of five moments you should actually be offended by from Sunday night’s award show. And before I continue, can I just say…Tom Hanks has two Oscars. Tim Allen does voiceover work to promote Michigan tourism. It’s funny. Allow yourself to laugh.

1. Michelle Williams’s dress.

I wore a dress like that to Easter dinner in 1997. But mine fit properly.

2. January Jones’s cleavage.

Dammit Don! I told you I needed another square of fabric.

3. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt forgetting  they were at a dinner. That was being televised.

4. Burlesque winning a Golden Globe.

I, being one of seven people not in Christina Aguilera’s fan club who saw this movie, can tell you that the dialogue leading up to the Cher performance that won the Golden Globe for Best Original Song, “You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me”, went something like this:

Club DJ who inexplicably hangs around until Cher leaves: Hey did you want to practice that song?

Cher: Not tonight, kid.

Club DJ: Are you sure? There’s a single chair pre-set on the stage.

Cher: Hmm. I see that.…….*shrug*……ok. 5, 6, 7, 8…

Then she performs with the cliche sad girl spotlight tinted blue to hide her age. Wrong.

5. This:

While I appreciate Natalie Portman who, instead of gushing over her unborn child, reminded the audience that the character in the movie who wouldn’t sleep with her is now willing to, it doesn’t really make up for the noise that subsequently came out of her mouth. My suggestion? Write something down for the Oscars.

On a final, positive note, I bring to your attention a highly entertaining moment, albeit brief,  you may have missed on Sunday:

Robert Downey Jr. comes out to present, and the camera cuts to Lea Michele who is clearly saying out loud (to herself), “He is so handsome!” She couldn’t embody musical theatre more if she tried.

Next up The Oscars! Co-hosted by! Anne Hathway! ……. Blech. If she refers to her affinity for on-screen nudity in her opening monologue, I’m changing the channel. Either that or I’ll just spend the rest of the evening staring at the anomaly that is co-host James Franco’s mouth.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Tracy: I missed the birth of both of my sons.  For very legitimate reasons.
Dot Com: Cooking a French bread pizza, and forgot.

How is your January 10, 2011 Resolution going? So far I’ve managed to eat more fruit and less fruit-flavored candy.  I’ve also been more aggressive with sending my resume out to a variety of potential employers. One company got back to me that same day, which made the beacon of hope that is my future employment shine just a little bit brighter in that moment. Of course, their response was “Thank you, Catherine, but there are no openings on our show at this time.” Um, yes, I noticed that. But don’t you sometimes just…like…give someone a job, because they want one?

The last time I was home, my mom suggested I look into working for a temp agency. It was the most depresssing thing I’d heard since my friend told me she used a temp agency and landed work as the receptionist at a store that sold toilets. After Googling temp agencies in Chicago, I was led to a website where I began searching the “Job Openings” section. Their database seemed thorough as I was able to specify my work preferences, with such desired job categories as “Welders” and “Building and Ground Maintenance”. Here’s a picture of future me, taken from the website.

That’s me on the left. Don’t I look happier? Probably because I’m so relieved that my skull is being protected from all of the falling debris at my new job.

My God, Tina, honestly. Save me from my own demise. Please.

I try not to dwell on the bleakness that is tucking away my career goals that have been pretty well defined since I was in college, for the sake of making ends meet. Or sometimes I try to dwell in it as much as possible because I’m bored and it’s more entertaining than discussing via a cover letter my adeptness for oral and written communication.

In any case, I am painfully aware of how much worse off I could be. And with that token of self-worth, I give you a list of five jobs that would be worse than working as a welder for Elite Staffing (The NEW way to work).

1. Justin Bieber backup dancer

I imagine it’s kind of like being that kid in your neighborhood who annoyed all the kids his own age, so he started hanging out with, like, the seven year olds who were too young to realize how lame he was.

2. A Doodlebop

Now I know many of you don’t know what that is. But as a seasoned babysitter, I do, and I can tell you as someone who used to think she wanted to be an actor, this is one depressing gig. I bet the blue one played Trigorin in his high school’s production of The Seagull. Leapin Lulu!

3. Joe Francis’s assistant

“Joe you have a 10 o’clock meeting with some potential……”

“WHAT?!?! I can’t hear you! These women keeping pressing their BREASTS against my EARS! I’M KING OF THE WORLD!”

4. The Boom Operator on America’s Next Top Model

It must be so very, very shrill.

5. The nurse on Bridalplasty

Bridalplasty (or as my boyfriend calls it, “Cut Me I’m Your Wife”) is a show about brides-to-be competing in challenges to win plastic surgeries in hopes of becoming the perfect bride. The only job worse than wheeling these women in and out of the recovery room so that they may test their skills at bouquet making in front of a very condescending Giuliana Rancic, is the job of actually being married to one of these women. Cheers.

See? Life ain’t that bad. I think I can feel my stress-related stomach pains receding as I type this. Thanks smut!

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Jack: I’ve got the next big reality show. We put a bunch of people in a plane, fly them over the Atlantic, then Tom Bergeron comes out and reveals that the pilot is a six year old boy. We call it “Child Hell Flight!”

I bought this game for my grandma for her 109th birthday. She was super pissed.

30 Rock Quote of the Day:

Kenneth: I let Mr. Jordan see his obituary.
Jenna: He’s dying?  Fine.  I’ll sing at his funeral.