Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

Tana turns out to be crazy in a bad way, while Kendra is just competent. Which is all she needed to be to out-do Looney Toon. This show is so irrelevant anyway. I'm totally not watching next season. (Yeah, I know, nobody believes that. Least of all me.)

Check out Just Ask Sammy for more.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

A quick (and late) recap of all that I had fallen behind on.

Tom Jedi-Knight-ed Ian off a buoy to claim the prize. It's too bad, because Tom really is a total fox and I'm sure a nice guy, but he egregiously mind-fucked Ian out of a million dollars under the guise of honour and loyalty, and that sucks.

There's more at Just Ask Sammy.

Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

The dialogue is stilted and lacking in finesse. Every line delivered between Anakin and Padmé feels like an anvil is being dropped on your head. It’s painful. I cringed. A lot. This is clearly nothing new. No one expects Lucas to be as skilled with the pen as Homer, but maybe if he’d bothered to make it believable that a beautiful and influential older woman like Senator Padmé Amidala could ever find Anakin Skywalker anything other than a petulant teenager then there’d be a lot less groaning out in the audience.

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Cinderella Man

The Voice of Reason got advance screening tickets for this one, and I have no natural defense against advance tickets. I will go see anything if it’s “advanced”. Paris Hilton flicks are fair game if it’s “advanced”. As are any movies where the trailer begins “In a world where…” And clearly, so is a movie with the tagline “When America was on its knees, he brought us to our feet.”

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Reality Wrap-up: Amazing Race Finale

Listen, I'm not saying that the plane went back to the gate because of some purported Rob and Amber backlash. I'm not saying that it went back to the gate out of the goodness of the pilot's heart, either... But either way, a two-team finish is more dramatic than a one-team finish, even though in this case it feels like a total rip-off AND even though the team that won are genuinely nice people and I'm sure they deserved to win. Still, kind of a rip-off, and I feel you, but it's over now so we have to move on. At least we get to see Romber's wedding. I'll be covering that too.

More conspiracy theory at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

I am very, very, very far behind and I apologize.

Rob and Amber's tour guide does it all for them, and a double-decker bus derails Meredith and Gretchen. The finale's up next!

More old news at Just Ask Sammy.

Kylie Minogue Has Breast Cancer

Here’s a warning: this one’s not funny.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

She’s 36, in great shape, and fabulous in every way. Except she has breast cancer. I mean—please, no. Can it just go away? I’d rather not have to hide out under my bed in fear of it, but some days, at least symbolically, that’s what I do.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I can hear a voice in my head whisper it to me at intervals throughout the day. Reminding me: it’s out there. It knows where you live. It will find you too. Walking downtown, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in the windows of a shop. And I’ll hear it, ominous.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Not just Kylie. She’s not the only one spinning around in Chemo. Melissa Etheridge, Edie Falco, Patti LaBelle, Olivia Newton-John, Lynn Redgrave, Carly Simon, Gloria Steinem, and two of Charlie’s Angels Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith have all had it. I can’t believe it.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Not just the famous people either. Here’s where it gets really scary for me. Here’s where I want to hide out under the bed. Cousins checked for abnormalities. Aunts in remission – thankfully. Aunts who never got a chance at remission – sadly. Great aunts long gone. Others currently in treatment and fighting. Through both arms of my family tree, it is eating its way through the women. And I am waiting for it to find me.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

How young was I when the knowledge that the diagnosis was in my future settled upon me? So much clearer than a premonition. Fifteen? I think that was it. You make your own future, Jenn, Mom told me. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Yes, I know, but still… There it is, like the break in my lifeline that I already know the explanation for.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Remember that movie “Step Mom”, with Susan Sarandon dying of breast cancer and Julia Roberts left to grow into mothering Susan’s children? Horrible movie. But I cried throughout, and sniffled my way back to the parking lot afterwards. “Stop worrying about me,” Mom said, hoping to make me stop crying. “It wasn’t you I was worried about,” I choked. She stopped a moment and realized what I was saying. She gave me a look of sad understanding. But how do you reassure your twenty year-old daughter that she will live long enough to see the children of her future grow up?

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I’m long past the point of joking “if there’s any lumps there, I’m sure to find them!” My body has moved from that of a thin and boyish young girl to one of a grown woman. I worry the curves will hide any lumps. I check religiously. Tenderness under the left armpit? What’s that about? Keep an eye on that one. But you won’t feel pain, they tell me. You won’t feel pain until it’s too late. It must just be hormonal, silly. I wake up in night sweats, and panic. It wasn’t a nightmare. Didn’t Mom tell me once that night sweats were a warning sign for cancer? Is it? Is that what that is?

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I alternate between being preventative and being brazen about it. The studies all contradict themselves. The warnings on the label of the prescription are vague and unclear. I’ve gone through phases where I simply snot well, it runs in the family so it’s going to get me no matter what I do, so I’m just going to do whatever I want anyway. And then I get scared and stop. Because maybe taking that pill is just adding fuel to the fire. Maybe that will just make it get me faster.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

I’ve heard the stories of women getting preventive mastectomies. They choose to lop off their breasts before anything is ever detected. It can’t kill them if they ain’t got ‘em, they figure. I don’t condemn their resolute belief, but I could never make that choice myself. My femininity is all wrapped up in my curves. Take that away from me and I wouldn’t just want to hide out under my bed, I’d want to hide out in the dark. I’d feel bare, exposed, stripped of my identity, of my attractiveness. Please don’t touch me. Don’t pay any mind to me. I’m just a eunuch. Forget me.

Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

Fight it Kylie. Cut it out and smack it down with whatever chemicals and radiation you need to. Get rid of it. Live to tell. Tell every woman you come across to get regular checks. That’s what I would do. That’s what I will do when the time comes. Get it early; get it out of me.

Save Kylie.

Kicking and Screaming

I mean, I even forgave him the ending of Elf because the man made me fall out of my seat laughing when he ran into a wall.

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Monster-in-Law

I think it ought to be mandatory that Lopez appear in a wedding dress every time she's on screen. The woman just looks so comfortable in them!

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Reality Wrap-up: American Idol

There's got to be some sort of therapy group started for this. I'm throwing my support solidly behind Carrie Underwood after those performances, because, damn. And wow. And awesome. What can I say? I'm fickle.

All the wrong notes are at Just Ask Sammy.

P. Diddy’s Yacht

When it comes to celebrity there is a fine line between “fascinating” and “please, please, for the love of God, get on a yacht and sail far, far away, and never come back. EVER.” Some celebrities have built up enough goodwill in their careers to stay on my “fascinating” list for far longer than they should. I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m too loyal.

Exhibit A: I still love Jennifer Lopez. Okay, I’m sort of sorry about this, but the fact remains, I love her. Girl can’t act her way out of a cubicle, can’t sing her way out of the shower, and always looks like she’s trying too hard when she dances. But, DAMN. Cheekbones! Fox fur eyelashes! The clothes – the Gucci sunglasses, that Versace dress that is soooo irrelevant because it was like eleventy-eight damn years ago (but still!), the Louis Vuitton everywhere! And don’t get me started on her bum, because it was, is, and shall remain mesmerizing. I. Love. Her! Honestly, she built up enough goodwill with “My Love Don’t Cost a Thing” being the catchiest song ever – and an awesome video to boot – that I forgave her the whole “Jenny from the Block” thing. And I forgave her the whole Bennifer thing, too. Because the ring? She was pink and sparkly. And I was buying up US Weekly by the truckload when the two of them were on the cover. So? Lopez? Love her. Still. Can’t help it. Although her lovers, I am torn about.

Marc Anthony? Hate. Hate. Hate! Dude is gaunt, with the eyes of an alcoholic and the personality of, oh, I don’t know, a cigar butt. Okay? How did she end up with him? Oh the pains of rebounding, all right! Jennifer, I feel you, I’ve been there. But you’re just supposed to cringe, shake off the hangover, and sneak out the back door of the house without anybody noticing! You’re not supposed to MARRY HIM!

P. Diddy? Hate, also – although less so than stupid Latin crooner. It’s like Diddy was never allowed to play Show and Tell in Kindergarten, so the rest of his life has become One Big Show And Tell! Miami and the yachts, the “bling”, the women, and what’s up with all the white tuxedos, okay? I just… no. P. Diddy, you are not Frank Sinatra. And Ashton Kutcher is not Dean Martin. And HELL NO, Bruce Willis is NOT Sammy Davis Jr. for chrissakes. [Sidebar: Usher? HATE.] Also, Ashton Kutcher and Bruce Willis vying to be Diddy’s best friend is just kind of ooky. And wrong. And I don’t want to see that, okay? I don’t care if y’all are still friends for the kids’ sake. Fine. Be the brand new Brady Bunch, for all I care. But leave Diddy out of it. There’s not enough room on his yacht. Okay? Thank you.

But Ben Affleck? Love him. And yes, there is some shame in this. Because? Forces of Nature. Pearl Harbour. GIGLI! I can’t even remember the last time Ben Affleck did a movie that didn’t annoy the snot right out of me. But something tells me that the last time I thought he was good on-screen was in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. And only in the scenes where he was playing himself. And particularly in the scene where he and Matt Damon were making fun of each other. But that’s it. [Also, I love Matt Damon, but I’m tired of him and Ben being all wifey-happy together in interviews. You’re lifelong pals. We get it. You wuuuuuuuuve each other. That’s great. But we got it the first time in 1997! So – enough, already!] The thing that I love about Affleck is that he’s so damn affable, and genuinely comes off as being smart in interviews. Affleck is in on the joke, folks! He knows he’s a bad actor. He knows he’s even a bad matinee idol. He’s genuinely sorry to put everyone through this. It’s charming! I love it! I could watch him on Leno every night. And that’s saying a lot. Because Leno? Hate.

You know who else I love? Jennifer Garner. Yes. Awesome. Adorable AND Kick-Ass. Sydney Bristow is the best character ever to grace my television. And Garner balancing crying and kick-boxing? Well, I could watch that all day. I admit, I’d love to see her train a little less though, because there are days where she looks like her collarbones could cut glass. I mean, a cookie wouldn’t kill her, is all I’m saying. I’m happy that she and Ben Affleck are together and out of the spotlight. I’m really happy that the only photo of the two of them together on file is at a Red Sox game. That’s just awesome. I just hope that they name the baby something normal, for heaven’s sake. Please, Jen and Ben, just name your kid “John” or “Bobby”, or “Sarah”, or “Rachel”. Nothing after a fruit. Or a Celtic clan. Or a Chinese dynasty. Or,… just please don’t. Because that might be the end of all my goodwill for you. And then you’d end up sailing away with Marc Anthony, P. Diddy, and Ashton and Demi and Bruce. And it just doesn't seem like the two of you would have a good time on Diddy’s yacht.

Now let’s talk Charlie’s Angels – which, I know, not so relevant riiiiight now, but bear with me. Demi is already on Diddy’s yacht with her ex-husband, and her children, and her boyfriend who should be in daycare still. Hate. Drew Barrymore, however, can stay off the yacht. I love her. She’s not a typical beauty, nor is she a girl-next-door beauty, but she’s still, you know? Pretty. And she seems happy – which I love. Because she was a pudgy kid doing cocaine before she even needed a bra, okay? That’s a lot of crap to go through. And to come out on the other side not like Dana Plato IS impressive. IT IS! It builds up enough goodwill for her to get away with marrying Tom Greene. YES IT DOES!

Lucy Liu I’m pretty ambivalent about. Loved her in Ally McBeal. For a while. Then it got old. Loved her guest spot in Sex and The City. Hate her in Joey. So, she’s batting just under five hundred, which is still pretty darned good. But you know what’s annoying? Since the first Charlie’s Angels movie came out, I’ve been conducting an informal survey of every guy I come across: which angel do you like the best? Like one guy in twenty will say Barrymore, because she just ain’t got it for them. (Sadly overlooked.) About twenty-five percent of guys will say Cameron Diaz. But the majority of them will just start drooling over Liu. Over. Rated. Ugh.

Cameron Diaz, I’m sorry to say, has worn out her goodwill. And I thought with that goofy chick-flick,The Sweetest Thing, that I would love her forever. But no. Hate! Out. Gone. Off to Diddy’s yacht with her. BECAUSE SHE’S DATING JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. And I’ve already gone on at length about Mr. Timberlake and his grandma and his women-hating, doe-eyed, Teflon-coated luck streak, okay. Just, no. Cameron, dump squidly and we’ll see what we can do about putting you back on the cool list, okay? I mean, you’re MARY! You can do BETTER! But for now, you and your boyfriend can hop on Diddy’s Yacht and sail off into the sunset with Kevin Federline.

Ew. Kevin Federline. Hate. Fertile little bugger though, I’ll give him that. But, I mean it’s self-explanatory. I don’t have to go into detail about the wardrobe, or the Red Bulls or the dumping-of-the-pregnant-mother-of-his-child-for-BRITNEY-SPEARS [who I still love… I’m sorry,] do I? Yuck. No. Sail away, Kevin Federline. Leave Britney on the shore. Mama Lynn will take care of the baby, and Britney can get back to doing what Britney does best: making well-produced and ultra-catchy pop ditties. Honestly, all I have to do is say “Oops!” and it’ll be stuck in your head all afternoon. I’m not kidding. And while Kevin is on Diddy’s yacht, he can slobber all over every other fly-by-night pop princess THAT WILL NEVER MATCH BRITNEY. That’s right: I’m talking about Lindsay Lohan, Hilary Duff and Ashlee-bloody-Simpson. You know they’re all on the yacht.

As are Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Stop BITING EACH OTHER IN FRONT OF THE CAMERAS! Also on the yacht? Angelina Jolie. Home-wrecker.

On the shore? Jennifer Aniston. In fact, the entire cast of Friends has built up enough goodwill with ten years of solid entertainment to remain on solid ground with me. Even Matthew-I-Drove-My-Car-Through-A-House-And-I-Was-Sober-Swear-To-GOD-Perry. And for right now, I’m going to let Brad Pitt enjoy terra firma. Because? So pretty. But if he gets all weird with the vials of Angelina’s blood, well, don’t think that he ain’t too good looking to be sent sailing. Mr. Pitt, your good standing is hanging by a thread. I hope you know how to swim.

Reality Wrap-up: The Apprentice 3

Alex is a total dork, right? Yeah, agreed. But here he gets fired for not knowing the difference between one loss and two, while Tana gets away with fixating on beads and glue on a T-shirt!

Tana's stock has dropped too far. Go Kendra!

More outrage at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: Survivor Palau

We finally say goodbye to Stephenie who, despite being awesome, is remarkably useless in a crunch.

Fare thee well at Just Ask Sammy.

Paula-tics

Oh Paula! What an eventful few weeks you have had! I mean, I know that the American Idol machine thrives on supposed controversies. God knows it’s seen its fair share. What with all the child-porn posing of Frenchie Davis, the sister-smacking of Corey Clark, the myyyyssteeeeeeriooouuuus dropping-out of Mario Vasquez, the cell phone assault followed by completely sincere regret of Scott Savol, the totally predictable drug admissions of Bo Bice, with all the votefortheworst controversies of John Stevens and Scott Savol, the whole Hawaii time-zone auto-dialler nightmare of Jasmine Trias, the Oprah-pimpin’ of Ruben Studdard, the Oops!-we-showed-the-wrong-phone-numbers-by-accident-(honest!) incident earlier this season, and the Elton John smackdown accusation of rampant racism! It’s just getting hard to keep all these things straight. Nothing stops the juggernaut. All these little issues keep seeming to add fuel to the fire. And God knows I’m not going to stop watching any time soon. But, Paula, Paula, Paula, at you? I shake my head in dismay.

First with the happy, grinning, nonsense, babbling and carbon-copy commentary. Then with the constant cutting off of the Simon— for whom we watch the show, so, um, stop raining on his parade already! Then with the climbing into Simon’s lap and slobbering all over him. Then with the rumours of drug use, which, I’m totally buying because it explains the babbling and the interrupting and the dog-face-licking perfectly. But the drug rumours persist long enough to migrate out from the internet world and into the actual real world, where there are red-states and full-on outrage at that kind of “illicit behaviour”. This is not good. So you go on Entertainment Tonight and spin, spin, spin. You educate the world about reflex sympathetic dystrophy, and I must admit, I got nothing out of that lesson. But you say you totally have it. And it’s a totally real disease. And you are totally not on drugs. Things look up for two seconds.

And then you go and let Corey Clark burn you. Shame, shame, shame.

COREY CLARK! Y’all remember him, right? He was the weaselly looking café-au-lait, with the mop of “wear it natural” curls on his head, with the soprano voice and the ook-ook-ooky look in his eyes that got righteously dismissed midway through the semis of season two because of the aforementioned sister-smacking. He’s a claaaaaaaass act, I tell ya.

Paula, you slept with Corey Clark, didn’t you? At least that’s what Clark says. Clark’s got phone bills, and parent affirmations, and shifty friends to back him up, too. Also, he has a song called “Paula-tics” on his upcoming “album” that explains the whole sordid affair. But in case that song never hits real radio stations (which it won’t, because it’s, um, not so good,) he’s also got Prime Time Live to play it over and over and over, as the soundtrack to his one-hour exposé all about you, PAULA ABDUL, and the sex he, you know, had with you, PAULA ABDUL.

Here’s the thing: Clark is about as convincing in his story as Ben Affleck is when he says he’s “so over the gambling thing and the drinking thing.” Clark is shifty. He won’t state things outright. He’ll only answer the most painfully leading of questions. His friends are hoodlums who won’t look the camera in the eye. Clark has been peddling around a tell-all book and he just got a record deal and the whole thing REAKS OF PUBLICITY STUNT. There are enough holes in his story within which to taxi a Boeing 747. And yet, despite how poorly portrayed this whole bungling mess of a story is, I STILL TOTALLY BELIEVE YOU WERE BANGING HIM!

And, I mean, if that’s true, then I’m just as sure that Justin Guarini came before Clark. And I’m even more sure that Constantine Maroulis came after Clark. You deal with them all the same way. The same ruthless adoration and sly smiles. You never backhand them like you backhand Carrie with the “I’m glad you have so many fans.” You publicly admit that you are falling in love with them. You melt and cry and fall apart when they leave the show. You touch foreheads with their mothers. And can I just say?

Ew.

Girl, please. Paula Abdul, I bought Forever Your Girl when I was thirteen years old and I still know all the words to “Straight Up”, and “Forever Your Girl”, and “Cold-Hearted Snake” and “Opposites Attract”. Hell I PROBABLY STILL KNOW ALL THE DANCE MOVES. (As sad as that is... This ISN'T about me!) I love your crazy-act. I think Idol would be just as lost without your loopy grin as it would be without Simon’s snooty criticism.

But you have bad taste in men (or, you know, boys, as the case may be.) Please stop sleeping with the creepy male contestants. Go back to Emilio. Live happily – and reflex sympathetic dystrophically pain-free – ever after.

The Subway Ride (The Book List)

Chabon seems to have fallen so in love with the character of Grady Tripp that he doesn't understand that what the reader reeeeeally wants to see is more Terry Crabtree.

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Reality Wrap-up: American Idol Results Show

Okay, so you know how I've been saying how creepy I find Constantine Maroulis? Well, I'm not really going back on that. But there's, like, a natural order to the universe. And that natural order has been disrupted. So I expect that the four horsemen of the apocalypse will be on their way shortly.

More doomsday predictions can be found at Just Ask Sammy.

Reality Wrap-up: The Amazing Race

Boston Rob? Meet Karma. Karma? Boston Rob. I'm sure you two will get along fine. Hehe.

There's more laughs at Just Ask Sammy.

Job Hopping

I have had ten proper employments. Which generally doesn’t seem a lot, and I’m sure that the masses could whup the heck out of that number if they actually sat down and counted up, wrote down on paper, and collectively remembered all the ways in which the money was made. I sat down and thought it out. For an educated woman, who stakes no claim to “acting” or “entertaining” or “selling art” of any kind, and is yet still not thirty, the ten jobs of my history seems a lot to me. I mean, try putting together a coherent resume out of the jumble that follows! On a good day, I bite my lip, cross my fingers and attempt the spin. On a bad day, I forever relinquish hopes of “achieving my goals” and landing that “unique job opportunity” that I “so well deserve.”

I started out as a cashier at the brand new Ultra Mart when I was seventeen. Hundreds of unemployed stood in line in the winter cattle call, because the set-up of a brand new business in a small town is a big deal. I got the job because I smiled in the five minute interview. And then for the minimum wage of $6.85 an hour, for about twelve hours a week, I smiled while the UPC codes booped their way through the laser eye of my checkout. I have to say, it wasn’t a bad way to enter the workforce: brainless and grinning. Often I shared shifts with my best friends, the Dub, her boyfriend, or Dark-Boy, and we could chat away the slow evenings or afternoons. Also, it was in the employ of the Ultra Mart that I first got the nerve to proper ask a boy out, after stalking him for weeks (or months, whatever.) He accepted. I loved him so bad.

After the job at the grocery store, I worked as a full-time nanny for a stint, and then did some time working in a strawberry patch before Mr. Grumpy-pants pulled the nepotism card at the manufacturing plant where he worked. Working on an assembly line is as close to accidental meditation as I have ever come. Eight hours a day, repeating the same four motions. Forcing myself not to look at the clock, like an insomniac begging for respite. I made vacuum tubes for automotive air conditioning parts. I still have one to remind me what repetition does to the brain. A summer student lost a finger to a machine that year. Luckily, it was not me, although I did have my own close call. As the top part of a small vertical hydraulic press came loose and crashing down, I pulled my hands out of the way at the last second. With the noise of the crash still echoing in the air, I stared at the gloves of my intact hands. In its closed jaws, the press held the material of my left glove, but not my fingers themselves. It was that close. The next summer I found a job at a paper mill that was decidedly more challenging and safety-conscious.

Then fresh out of school, engineering degree in hand and iron ring on finger, I still felt something a little less than enthusiasm at the prospect of the “ideal job” that I had landed. Fortune Five Hundred company, excellent pay, top notch benefits, the promise of technical challenges and the myth of time to work on my own projects – they build careers, they invest in their people, they recruit only the top! I had so scored the perfect job on paper. What I got in reality was a standard communist grey uniform, a stale cubicle, a sixty hour work week, plus on-call hours, and the tacit and unspoken understanding that the female engineers were to stay in the lab and off of the machine. Combine with that the fact that I had moved to the middle of nowhere and had just suffered a post-graduate crisis of identity, and you could maybe understand why I spent so many hours hiding in the washroom stall, pretending not to be a drama queen when that was exactly what I was. Dramatically ungrateful for the whopping paycheque. Dramatically unhappy at the prospect of making this my whole life.

ESL teacher would seem the next logical step, wouldn’t it? And from there French-English translator sounds about right, doesn’t it? And from there it’s just a small leap to mutual fund sales before landing at a desk job on the phones in customer service, right? The last jump was made in such a time of desperation, after the savings sputtered out into less than nothing, and six months of searching online yielded zero results. And I’ve given it my all for more than a year, but this job is never going to be enough for me.

I logged onto Monster last week for the first time in over a year – just casually, just to take a peek at what was out there. And moments later I found myself in the throes of a full-on panic attack. The sight of “Company Undisclosed”, or “Only successful candidates will be contacted”, or the dreaded “5 years + experience required” kind of sent me into a tailspin. Head between the knees, paper bag in my hand, telling myself “Just breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You are not going to throw up.”

But what’s a fool, with a beautiful honours degree but a spotty employment record supposed to do? How do you get it right when all you’ve ever done is get it wrong before? What happens when the serendipity that had followed you for so long abandons you less than half-way through the ride? I swear I would rather put a black marker through all I have done thus far in my life, crumple up the paper and start over on a new draft, in pencil, on yellow foolscap, than submit myself to the online employment search once again. Head hunters are vultures. And what they feast upon are the dwindling and dying egos of the dejected jobseeker. Not again. No way. Not me. No siree-bob.

So instead, I’ll be sitting myself down with a personal career counsellor and receiving all the you-can-do-it, we-can-help motivational speeches I can stomach. I’ll let you know how it goes.