Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

Okay, I just can't get over how good I think Anthony Federov was. So Air Supply. So REO Speedwagon. So Christopher Cross over-the-top soft-rock radio-friendly. Just. Awesome.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit it at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

Condescending? Young Lady, you don't even know what that means!

It's kind of arrogant, but there's more at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

She gets a spot on the jury? For pulling that kind of crap? Unacceptable. Really and truly.

The whole story is at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

Animal molestation, Xanadu, NOT Milkshake spills, and a game of duck, duck, goose.

And I still don't get the whole Scott Savol thing. I just don't.

The translation is at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

Gretchen - get out of the elephant. STAT.

There's always more at Just Ask Sammy.

Buseus Moodicus TERRIBILIUM

It’s not that hard to have a bad day. All you need is a work screw-up book-ended by the public transportation system’s evolutionary equivalent of the thing that crawled out of the primordial ooze. So this is my day yesterday.

I have to head out to Etobicoke early in the morning for a day on-site at a customer’s. But Pete the Car is in the body shop having this itty-bitty scratch fixed so that the goddamn lease company won’t charge me for it upon his safe return to them. The lease basically reads like this: please return car four years later exactly as you found it. Don’t drive the car in such a manner, over four years, as to receive any scratches, scrapes, key marks, stone chips, glass chips, broken mirrors, fender dents, paint marks, rust stains, upholstery tears, gravel on the floor mats, coffee stains on the cup holder, dust on the dashboard, or fingerprints ANYWHERE. I mean, just, don’t touch the car. Just look at it. For 1460 days. So when my driver’s side mirror got stolen (bastards,) the inconsiderate thieves left a wee scratch on the door that I am now being forced to have fixed. And I have no car right now. You know what this means?

It means I have to take the bus. The BUS.

Now, here’s how the food chain of commuting works. At the top of the food chain are the car commuters. They are inefficient, and often irritable bordering on ragey, but they are self-sufficient. So they are at the top. Then there are the GO-trainers, heading in from the ‘burbs at 15 minute intervals. Their trains run to an actual schedule and there is ample leg-room in the bi-level cars. So they come in second. Then there are the subway-ians, of which I am usually part. Subway-ians get to work quickly, but they do so in a sardine-crammed fashion that can make them often as irritable as the car commuters. And the subway trains arrive at shoddy, ill-planned intervals, but often enough as to calm the growing sense of universal panic. Below the subway-ian lies the streetcar-ite. The streetcars are equally as crammed as the bloody subways, but there are less places to sit, and more interval stops along the route. Streetcar-ites tend to be less hygiene conscious than subway-ians, but they still consider themselves urban and they stop at such hip places as Little Italy and my dimsum place in China Town, so we forgive them the forays into Parkedale, and Leslieville, and Cabbagetown.

And at the very bottom of the food chain: the bus. Buseus impurius antiquiorum: antiquated, slow, overcrowded and dwelling in obscure regions of the outer-city. And this is where I am, under a threatening grey sky, laptop in tow. And my laptop carrying bag, despite looking oh-so-attractive, is really not all that useful. It doesn’t have a long shoulder strap around which I can swing the computer hands-free. So instead, I have to grip the handles of the bag like a briefcase with my tiny animal paw hands. So as the bus careens around corners, it’s slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And my destination office building is a good walk away from the bus stop. As I exit the bus, the wind howls and the sky opens up in full out rain, and I run, slip, slip, slip, re-grip and switch hands, all the way to cover.

Then I spend all day, isolated and alone, in a foreign boardroom, providing what we call a “support role” at the client’s for the day. The connection to my work PC is uber slow, and my cell phone daytime minutes are quickly mounting as I call in for reinforcement. I’m on the phone with head office and dude is all “What are you even doing there? Wasting the company’s time and money?” And I’m so with him on that because that’s exactly what I’m doing there. But he could, you know, pay attention to me and give me some more details so that I don’t feel quite so lost and lonely. He could pretend that we are friends and throw a joke my way instead of being all pissed off that his bloody project didn’t go quite so smoothly. It’s not my fault! And I’m stranded! Because: no car and… BUS. (buseus publica overcrowdium) But he doesn’t, because he’s in a mood that is quite matching to my own at this point. I don’t even know what irked me more – that he wouldn’t tell me all the information I needed, or that he mistook me for someone else entirely when he first answered the phone. Because I would always recognize his voice. And that’s why I don’t have the upper-hand I so desperately seek. After languishing away for six hours independently, it’s back on the bus. (buseus aromicus stinkae)

Slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands. Errrrrrgh.

On the bus ride home there is a kid sitting in front of me that is maybe twenty years old. In a three piece suit. With a backpack and a goddamn iPod and sneakers. I’m thinking job interview. I bet his girlfriend thinks he cleans up nicely in a suit. But the sneakers kind of ruin it. Instead of looking all professional, he just looks like a bored kid from the suburbs in an ill-fitting suit. He actually looks like he could be the younger brother of an old roommate from Japan. He’s got the brooding eyes, and the goatee that took him six months to grow in because without it he would look like the youngest member of Menudo. And he’s even got the tweaked-out furrowed brow that Cooliam used to pull out on an exhausted Monday morning. And the kid smells like Axe body spray/eau de parfum/eau de toilette/eau de cologne. I think he’s seen the commercials that imply it makes women want to hump Axe-wearing men. But for me, all I can think about when I smell the stuff is Gay Roomie. Gay Roomie practically bathes in it. Every morning, still more than half asleep, I come tromping down the stairs from the third floor, turn the corner and run into a wall of Axe. A cloud of Axe. A stink bomb of Axe! Boom. It is intense. Does it make me wanna go after the man who ate the tequila worm that once grew in the graveyard of the man who once wore Axe while he was alive and had a heart attack while being molested by a woman overcome by that overpowering Axe aroma? Not so much. I don’t so much associate the smell with burning desire. Because: Gay Roommate.

Finally at my stop I exit the bus (buseus interruptus nonstoppium) and walk the rest of the way home dragging the trusty old laptop. In the rain. Slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands. Aaaaaargh! I open the door to my apartment, contemplating my soon-to-be-entirely-car-less future. I contemplate all the car rentals, bummed rides, taxis filled with groceries, and goddamn busses in my future. Oh help and bother! And as I walk up the stairs? (One final slip, slip, slip, re-grip, switch hands.) I get hit by the roomie’s Axe-bomb.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

Paula is not on drugs, folks. They are prescribed to her by her doctor. Winona Ryder recommended him, so it's all totally legitimate. Stop making fun of her! It's mean.

I can't help myself at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

Three guys versus two chicks and Craig? It's not even a competition.

And it's really not. Heh.

Continue reading at Just Ask Sammy.

Sitting In The Dark (The Movie List)

I was too embarassed to tell people that I was going to this movie, on opening night no less, let alone tell them that I was excited to go see this movie.

Read more here...

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

Steph gets friends! YAY!

More at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

So much filler. And the mysteries of the voting ways of the American audience continue to baffle yours truly.

Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

Pit Stop? False alarm. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

You can see it all at Just Ask Sammy.

Lamentations On Being A Girl

Okay, so before I begin, Dad the content in this might not be considered suitable for your viewing – so quick, look over here!

[Well, it’s not that bad. But it does entail me going on and on about the weird things girls do, including a lengthy discussion on undergarments. So you really might want to check this out. Seriously? Okay, well you were warned. Your baby girl is pushing thirty.

As for what Mom would think of this, well, she’d probably just shake her head and huff at all the trivial little things I do and tell me how unnecessary it all is. And to this, I sigh, agree that I am indeed very silly, and resign myself to the fact that there is some bizarre instinctive remnant not yet evolved out of the species. Moving on.]

Saturday morning was shopping time. I decided it was time for new business pants, of which I am sorely in need. I have an old pair of black stretchy ones that used to be awesome until I dorked out and set the iron on way too high for the miniscule spandex content that give said pants their awesome stretchiness. So now, if my poor laundry regime forces me into actually wearing these pants to work I have to find ways to hide the big old glossy iron burn mark on the upper thigh. Not the easiest place to hide, as you might imagine. Then I have an old pair of classy grey pants with a sweet little ribbon running a few inches above the hemline that, in theory, I love, but in practice are just super uncomfortable. The waistband has no give, and this makes me understand how as you grow old you just gradually start to convert your entire wardrobe to the evil elastic waistband. And then somewhere in between forty and sixty, you just end up looking like the grade three elementary teacher you had, with the stretchy waistband pants, with the pleats down the front, and the beige Hush Puppies with arch supports and white tennis socks, and the reading glasses on a chain, and the Northern Reflections pink cardigan embroidered with birds and flowers and insects eating the all the birds and flowers and – creepy. I resolve to never let this happen to me, so I have retired these pants because the mark they leave upon my stomach as I sit down digs right through my belly button and pushes up against my spleen and causes all sorts of grief. And then I have the old standby pair of black dress pants: fitted in all the right places, flowing in all the right places, classy buttoned pockets here and there and very, very versatile. Too versatile. I have worn them so much that they are frayed and burred in places and it’s starting to feel not so proper to be wearing them anymore. Hence: shopping.

And under the fluorescent lights of the fitting room, one thing becomes very clear: I am in between sizes right now, swimming in the larger, stretching out in the smaller. Drat. The dilemma being that I really need the pants, like stat. The solution being that I blame winter for the extra soft bits, buy the smaller and walk my tooshie through the park every day after work. The immediate compromise required, though, was the real kicker for me: I’m going to need a thong.

I’m a hold out. I know. I know practically every other woman my age has long since adopted this form of undergarment. Along with high heels, co-ordinate purses, make-up every day, at least three different varieties of hair care product, manicured nails, pumiced soft feet, eyelash curling and tinting, and waxing of all various and sometimes intimate areas of the body – as if all of these uncomfortable chores have become requisite just to be admitted into the girls’ club. But I just didn’t want to give in on this one!

I have already given so much over to consumerist tendencies. Honestly. A quick inventory of my beauty product shelf reveals some scary, scary stuff:

· twelve makeup bags from various free gifts at the Bay
· a veritable lifetime supply of anti-wrinkle eye creams, travel size mascaras, and eyeshadows
· a whole bag full of lipsticks!
· half a dozen different scents of perfume, none of which are of the no-name variety
· two tins full of hair elastics and barrettes and scrunchies and claws, which is insane given that for ninety percent of my life my hair has not even fallen beyond my chin
· a pumice stick that is essentially just sandpaper for the feet, and it is a lot of work, yo!
· daily body moisturizer, and then also a body moisturizer with a hint of sparkle in it for special days
· daily body wash, and then a special body wash I only use when I need to exfoliate, and just those last three words actually make me roll my eyes
· cleansers and toners and daily cloths and masks of the facial variety
· disposable razor, twin blade razor, electric razor with five different attachments and three canisters of ladies’ shaving cream, which is no different from men’s except in the scent
· two tubes of Nair, despite the above, and despite the fact that from time to time I actually pay someone to physically rip all my deeply rooted hair from my body, which OUCH, why the hell??

IT. NEVER. ENDS.

I have a bin full of purses, and a rack full of colour-coded sandals, and a closet full of season-appropriate coats. I! CAN’T! STOP!

And half the time I don’t even know if I possess all these things and put all that effort into my own body maintenance because 1) some commercial told me I needed them, 2) boys really do think I look prettier that way or 3) I just saw some other woman do it one time and thought to myself “If she’s doing it then I guess I have to.” Would you notice if I didn’t wax my eyebrows? If I didn’t wear mascara everyday? If I didn’t wear the push-up bra? Would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Because thongs are un-comfortable! And ass-baringly un-sexy! I mean, I know there are plenty out there who would disagree with me, but I once heard thongs referred to as “butt floss” and the visual that produces is both accurate and unpleasant! In my humble opinion, the site of a giant T-bar sticking out of the tops of ladies low-rise jeans is more unsightly and more of a huge turnoff than my nemesis: the visible panty line. BUTT. FLOSS. People! And it’s not like I haven’t tried to enjoy the thong – I have. I just don’t like them. Thongs are unnecessary, lascivious overkill. I like a full cushion for my bottom. I’m not talking Granny panties, but a cute little bikini or boys’ cut will do just fine, thank you very much. So, honestly, would you really judge me if my panty line was visible?

Yes, yes you would. Especially in these new pants in the early stages of shedding of the winter layer. So I caved, finally. Just add it to the ever growing list of uncomfortable things I need to do to maintain my membership in the girls’ club. I think we need a referendum on this sort of thing. The president of the chapter might want to ease up on the list of admission requirements. It’s getting out of hand.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol 4

Hall and Oates look like mummified. And if they're not dead yet, then the shock of Scott's lacklustre performance ought to push them over the edge.

More wit at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice

Words cannot describe just how ridiculous this all is.

But I give it my best shot over at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! MAKE IT STOP!

(sniff, sniff.)

More tears at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

How do I hate you Scott? Let me count the ways...

Television brings me nothing but disappointment on Wednesday.

There are more tears at Just Ask Sammy.

You, In the Backseat! Ten Minutes: No Talking.

I am not a nervous driver. I’m not! I’ve been driving since I was sixteen and I have a clean driving record. Parking tickets DO NOT COUNT! I’ve been behind the wheel on cross-country trips on more than one occasion. [Stupid Calgary.] My silver Hyundai Pete has a standard transmission and I am always considerate of backseat passengers when gliding off the clutch to ensure smooth transitions. I am comfortable behind the wheel of a car.

Not something I came by naturally, I’ll openly admit. I was allowed to go for my learner’s permit at age sixteen without so much as a go-karting experience under my belt or even a general fondness for Indy 500 video games. There was one condition to my driving education: Mr. Grumpy-pants was not allowed to teach me. Mom felt he was too aggressive and wanted to protect me from picking up his racecar driving fantasies. (A little late considering the eight years I had already spent with him as one of my primary chauffeurs, but, whatever.) Mom survived two lessons with me behind the wheel and her instructing from the passenger side. The first: along a dirt country road with no one else in sight while I got a feel for the gas and the break. The second: driving five minutes to the neighbourhood Becker’s where I promptly botched all attempts to turn left. As she entered the house, nerves all affray, after the second driving lesson, she muttered “[Grumpy], you teach her. I don’t have the patience.” Then she downed a tranquilizer with a glass of wine.

And Mr. Grumpy-pants turned out to be the best defensive driving teacher I have ever needed. I mastered emergency braking, parallel parking, and proper highway merge techniques long before I ever sat in the car with an insurance-industry qualified Driver’s Ed teacher. All that, and there was only one incident where I mistook gas for brake and almost ended up through the store front of that neighbourhood Becker’s! No matter, Mr. Grumpy-pants, myself, and the Becker’s all lived to buy another Slurpee. And I learned that a good deal of “don’t panic” goes a long way behind the wheel of a car.

At the end of university I took a road trip down to New York State with my thesis group, to present our final project to our sponsor company. We had four drivers for the eight hour drive, so no big deal. D_____ took the first leg of the drive and promptly lost everyone’s confidence in his driving skills by getting us lost. Before we had left our university campus. I took the second leg of the drive and got us across the border. M___ took the third leg of the drive and played speed-up-slow-down-change-lanes-for-no-reason-and-switch-the-radio-dial-as-if-she-were-surfing-satellite-television-for-porn for the longest fifty miles of my life. Then she got pulled over by the State Trooper for speeding. Oh, bra-vo! As the trooper approached the car, she realized that she hadn’t actually remembered to bring her Driver’s License with her. Oh! Bra---vo! Then she sweet-talked the Trooper-with-the-very-large-firearm into letting her off the hook. This was pretty impressive given the fact that I was wearing the Please-Officer-I’m-Too-Young-To-Go-To-Jail look on my face. But, because she did not have her License on her, we had to switch up drivers yet again before we could continue the journey. Lastly, our resident Master’s student A_____ took his turn behind the wheel. Within ten minutes, he almost ran another driver off the road when he cut into the passing lane. I told him to pull over and took the wheel for the rest of the remaining six hours nonstop. ALSO during that roadtrip? The back-end of the van got clipped by a deer that I had to swerve to miss. Did I let someone else drive after that? Hell no. There was no way any of them were getting back behind the wheel!

So I am not a nervous driver. And I’ve long since outgrown the reckless phase too. But you know what I hate? I hate people who make me feel as if I ought to be a nervous driver.

It irks me that an old friend of mine, with a spotty driving record of her own, always used to hold onto the door handle of the passenger side for the entire ride – like she was prepared to open the door and ninja roll to safety while I was driving a comfortable 115 km/h along a dry highway. On a clear day! On a Sunday afternoon! In the middle of Nebraska! (Okay, maybe not Nebraska, but clearly I mean this wasn’t the Indianapolis 500 cutthroat stakes.)

Also I have another friend who is ridiculously particular about her car. She loooooooves it. And her boyfriend? Always makes me feel as if I should be more careful. He always cocks an eyebrow at me as I flip on the turn signal like “Are you sure you want to leave that ‘til the very last second? It’s not safe.” Dude, if my Dad – the king of pokey safe driving – has proclaimed me a safe driver, why on earth does your eyebrow of judgment bother me? Boyfriend is the kind of guy who will stand in the driveway and make the hand gestures to let me know exactly how much space you have to weasel out of my parking spot without bumping my friend’s car. (Which, did I mention she loooooooves?) One time he made me so nervous that I slipped the gear and stalled the car with a lurch. And bumped friend’s car. OH NO! Mind you, I was going like negative two kilometers an hour, so it’s not like I even left a scratch. THANK GOD.

Today I had a backseat driver in a full car on the way to a business lunch. As I turned left out of the parking lot and into traffic, he screamed like a little girl that I was going to kill them all. Hey man, Pete’s got pep! So relax already. I know you’ve been riffing on me, just assuming that I was a bad driver for the past few weeks in anticipation of this business trip, but how about you keep your soprano scream to yourself while we have a client in my car? Even my Mom doesn’t flinch when I turn left anymore.

Trust me, I know what I’m doing.

Writer's Block

Wow! I’m totally falling behind on the Reality Wrap-ups. My apologies to my three (or so…) fans. Also, I am fighting a serious case of like eight-day-old writer’s block. But I promise a new entry by the end of tonight – even if it means I will be up until 3AM, and also, even if it sucks.

But for right now, Raj and Robin from The Apprentice are totally judging the Miss USA Pageant on TV and my roommate is dying for me to come join her so we can pick apart the contestants' Vaseline lips and silicone breasts! (Incidentally, Raj and Robin are not seated next to each other. Heh.)

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

Swimsuits? Seems reasonable!

I heart the Brothers!

More at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice

Sigh. I miss Andy. He never said fuck or chewed tobacco.

Just Ask Sammy.

A Call to Arms

Dear Stuart,

I saw your show this weekend – the Decide Show, so you call it. And? Not so good. Let’s leave aside the technical difficulties you experienced that left the audience in silence for the better part of one segment. Let’s leave aside the non-catchy ditties interspersed throughout the night. Or the hokey “give yourselves a standing ovation” trick at the beginning. Let’s even leave out the fact that you seem to repeatedly rhyme the words “love” and “glove” as if that were novel.

What the hell is the show about? It’s called “Decide” and yet that’s the one thing you seem to have been incapable of doing.

Is the mixed-media an attempt to enlighten? Or is it misdirection?

Are the other characters up on stage meant to go through development? Or just support your journey?

Is it a personal experience? An invitation into the world inside your head?

Or is it merely an extension of your day job as a motivational speaker? An opportunity for you to let everyone know exactly how you think they can make your world a better place?

Because the show never makes up its mind, it fails on all accounts.

Musical sequences, prose, poetry, free-verse, beat-boxing, interspersed video content and interpretive dance! One word: overkill. Pick one medium, or two – preferably the ones you are best at, and run with them. Attach the medium to a story that is worth telling – not the other way around. Stop manipulating your audience. Every time you touch on a subject matter that will tug on the heartstrings of those in their seats, you switch gears on us so quickly as to give us whiplash of the consciousness. Every time you hook into something that feels real, the chorus is quickly trotted out on stage to muddy up the point entirely. It’s not cool. Don’t assume that your audience has the attention span of a gnat. Don’t assume that we aren’t willing to simply listen to what you have to say. If what you have to say is worth listening to, then you will not have to force the point with us, or misguide us, or make loud noises to keep us off balance. Commit to what you are doing, already.

And those other people up on stage? Those aren’t puppets. Those are actors. They’d like some sort of purpose instead of just ambling around, supporting your self-assumed grandeur. Most of their names are only mentioned in passing. None of them have a story-line of their own. None of them have any story arcs, or character development, or resolution. That cute scene where you break through the fourth wall and have the discussion about how each of those actors made the decision to recite your predetermined lines? As cute as it is – and we all have a chuckle at it because the audience loves to be in on the joke – it really only serves to reinforce the point that the chorus is just full of minion-bees, serving up honey to the writer-producer-and-the-only-bona fide star-QUEEN BEE of the show: YOU. As the writer it is your responsibility to do justice to every single thing you put up on stage, not just to yourself. Writers make choices. Good writers make generous choices. Great writers make necessary choices. All you did was choose to hog the spotlight. Are you still in your twenties? Perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to make the necessary decisions that will make it yours a great show yet. But, maybe, just maybe, it’s time to grow up.

And here’s the crux of the problem: are you confiding or preaching? I can’t tell. You haven’t let me in far enough. At the outset, I can almost peer into the seed of the idea for the show. I can envision you, sitting at home in front of your computer, beginning the journey of moving words from inside your head to the keyboard of your computer, and onto the stage in front of your audience. It feels as though you want to tell me something personal. It feels as though you want to confess something to me. As you move through how tough it was for you to tell your parents that you could not be a nine-to-fiver, I feel for you. I’m almost right there with you. You’re so close to moving me. And then? And then it’s gone. And then the seed of the idea becomes vague and unclean. You don’t back up the idea with any personal experiences. You don’t back it up with similar experiences from the rest of the characters. There is just some talk about how everyone up on stage totally agrees with you as they nod their heads up and down, a blank stare across their face. Why do they agree with you? Why don’t they want the nine to five? WHY DON’T YOU WANT THE NINE TO FIVE? Tell me. Let go of what’s holding you back and trust that the audience will not judge. It all repeats itself again with the sequence about love. We’ve all been burnt before, you tell me. And then you open the door to your experience just a crack with a monologue about loss in love. But? Why? What did you lose? Who? And why? And how? And what about the others? What did they lose? Did they watch their parents fall apart? Did they watch a lover self-destruct in loathing? Was there infidelity? How badly were they let down? Don’t just ask me to fill in the blanks for myself. Make the decision to take me to that vulnerable place inside of you. The possibilities then are endless.

Instead, you do what feels safe and, perhaps, more natural for you. You sit back into the groove that got you started in the first place. You pull up to your pulpit and you begin to preach your version of the gospel. You tell the audience of their own power to decide. You let them know that they have nothing to fear but fear itself. You turn them around and congratulate them for being so possessed as to attend your gracious enlightenment. It’s all in our hands! Go forth and spread the word! I have heard that you are a motivational speaker by day. I read it in your too-wordy-for-the-pre-show-dim-lights program. [I’ll be sending you the bill from the eye doctor, incidentally.] Here’s what I think: you choked. You set out to perform something intensely personal, but in the end something is preventing you from doing just that. Because once you get up on that stage, an archetype takes over and you are not showing the audience anything real about yourself. You are telling the audience what they need to do to be like you. Well, you haven’t given me any reason to want to be like you. So I’m not listening. You have mastered the art of oratory. Now it’s time to learn the difference between “performance” and “acting”. You are not an actor. No matter how badly you want to be considered one.

Your ideas may be fundamentally good. You may be headed in the right direction in the wrong vehicle. But none of that matters. I think you have surrounded yourself with an entourage of people who tell you that you’re already great, and so you’ve stopped somewhere halfway to your intended destination. ‘Right here is good enough,’ you tell yourself. ‘Right here, people like me and I am safe.’ I’m here to tell you that it’s not good enough. Make up your mind already.

What you’re striving for is universality. What you’ve stopped at is generic.

Sincerely,
Jennifer

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

I am strangely in love with Bobby Jon and his sad, sad, sad brown eyes.

There's more gushing at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

We say goodbye to Jessica even though Carrie is creepy in a JonBenet way and Scott should totally have been disqualified for being violent like a big fat lumpy bear. Oh, and did I mention the Muppets? There are totally Muppets.

You know you want to - Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race 7

I just don't know how television can get any better than this.

All that is awesome is at Just Ask Sammy.