Judging by my site stats, there are hundreds of you. Lucky Serena.
Yes, I admit, I wrote one blog about how powerful she is as a woman, physically and mentally.
And while I’m impressed by her athleticism, I’m not particularly interested in her backside.
But you are.
So please move along, I have nothing for you here.
Except another blog about my love of teacakes.
Please notice me.
With your Taylor Kitsch eyes,
And your Taylor Kitsch body,
You make me feel young again.
And a bit of a perv.
You just caught me looking at you.
That was embarrassing.
I’m blushing because I know,
You think I’m old enough to be your mother
But Oedipus had a point,
Don’t you think?
I’ll just pack up and leave. But,
Can I see your abs first?
No! Don’t call the police,
For I have no defence.
You caught me unawares.
For you are young and cute, and
You look like Tim Riggins from
Friday Night Lights.
But more importantly,
I haven’t had sex in months.
I think I love you.
Traffic is growing every month, and the feedback has been amazing.
To that end, I pitched a book idea based on ‘Hollywood Spinster’ to my agent in London. The book charts my move to America to find script-writing success, and love. I’ve pretty much failed on both counts, so I call it a ‘self un-help’ book. Because even though I’m not being wined and dine by WME or married to the man of my dreams, I’ve had a wonderful time. I’ve met new friends, travelled around the country, and had some wonderful experiences.
I also want to write about what it was like to be a single woman of a certain age living in Hollywood, and on a more universal level look at serious issues such as ‘What DO you do if you don’t have kids?’, or ‘How do you survive as a single woman in a harsh economic climate?’ All against the crazy, narcissistic, youth-obsessed backdrop of Hollywood.
Mostly, I wanted it to be funny, honest and self-deprecating. All the things you tell me it is.
This is what he said about my book pitch:
“Sorry but it cries out ‘desperate’ and needs much more oblique approach. I think it’s too much in one’s face, maybe too American. Can’t see what really makes it distinctive and the humour isn’t really there. Needs much lighter touch.”
I’m not sure what’s more upsetting – desperate, or not funny? Actually, it was the ‘desperate’. That felt like a low blow. Because I’m single? I use the word ‘spinster’, or because I have no kids?
If you think that the idea of Hollywood Spinster is desperate, please tell me. I’m looking for your feedback because frankly, I find his comments insulting. And you should too. I’ve been a writer for many years now and am used to hearing ‘no’, but this made me very angry.
Please comment below. I’m going to make sure he sees what you have to say.
…you sign up for a Royal Wedding party at the pub, and plan to wear only a pair of pajamas and a tiara.
In fact, spinsters rarely have dates. After a certain point, a date turns into a heavy sigh, augmented with a slash of lipstick.
It becomes not so much ‘OMG, I should get a wax’ but more ‘Oy vey, here we go again’.
I broke up with my ex five months ago, and haven’t been on one date since. A guy I know, one of those San Fran internet-types, asked me out a couple of weeks ago but didn’t follow through, and neither did the millionaire who emailed me on JDate (I’ve since terminated my membership which lasted all of two weeks – that’s another blog entirely).
I remember in my twenties and early thirties, fending off a slew of ‘possibles’. Now I can’t imagine who would ask me out, and conversely, I can’t imagine who I would say yes to.
Older men aren’t interested (this is Hollywood, even a foetus is pushing it), and I’ve had my fill of younger men who would rather commit to Twitter, amusing t-shirts and Comic-con than a relationship.
Consequently, I go to most events by myself. This isn’t easy anywhere in the world, and it’s especially challenging in Hollywood, where sexual allure, or rather proving it by surrounding yourself with youth and beauty, is more important than knowing how to tie your own shoelaces.
Which is why on Saturday night I had a mild panic attack driving along Franklin to the Magic Castle, as the guest of a British magician who is currently touring the States.
I timed my arrival so that my group of friends would arrive first, thus saving me having to do the required I’M NOT FEELING SELF-CONSCIOUS routine. You know, the one that shows everyone how VERY BUSY, VERY IMPORTANT and IN DEMAND you are are. The one where you study your Blackberry or iPhone until your eyes laser through the screen, and set fire to your Facebook app.
My old car chugged up the hill to the valet, just as I received a text saying ‘We’ll be there in ten minutes!’ at which point I nearly threw up but didn’t because I was wearing a new recession-busting frock (a $16 vintage dress that made me look like a curious hybrid of Mary Poppins and Dita Von Teese).
The valet waved me to a spot by the smoking area, and I stepped out of the car, bracing myself for ‘the gauntlet of fake’. I wasn’t disappointed. Twelve or so people, men and women, who were waiting to go inside turned to look at me.
Sorry, turned to JUDGE me.
I should be used to it by now. They want to see if you’re ‘somebody’. (Not in a PT Cruiser, you’re not.)
They want to see what you’re wearing, who you’re with, your jewelry, your hair, your skin or any signs of cosmetic surgery. Their eyes not so much dress you as inflict needle wounds into your skin.
A group of four women teetering on Louboutins, and wearing Kardashian-esque bandage dresses stared at me so hard, I thought they were going to lift me off the ground. This was the Magic Castle after all, so levitation is par for the course.
They did not.
The good news is that I didn’t trip, I didn’t dribble, and I didn’t have my skirt tucked into my pants.
I merely took a deep breath, held my head high, and walked past them like I was once again sloping past the cool gang in the school corridor.
As I got to the entrance, I looked up from my Blackberry (I’m very important don’t you know), and glanced behind me, expecting a ruler to be thrown at my head.
Instead one of the girls, with lips covered in enough gloss to coat the White House, smiled and mouthed ‘Hey’. I gold-fished a hello back. And exhaled. I’d made it.
My friends arrived and inside, I was instructed to say ‘Open Sesame’ to an owl sitting on a bookcase to open the secret door to the club.
We had wonderful evening drinking wine, watching close-up magic, illusions – one of the magicians levitated my friend’s wedding ring in front of my eyes – it was amazing. I even flirted with a bandana-wearing rock dude (amazing-er).
Later, a ghost played me a lively version of ‘The Entertainer’ on the piano. I haven’t laughed so much in a long, long time.
Hollywood is all smoke and mirrors, and while I may not be a magician I’ve always been able to create an illusion of confidence.
And in this town, that’s like pulling a rabbit out of the hat.
You’ve got to feel sorry for ‘ole wosserface’ on the left.
Her best mate marries Keira Knightley’s brother, and she has to walk down the aisle alongside one of the world’s most famous actresses. SONOFABITCH.
As a perpetual bridesmaid, my heart went out this this lady of average looks and shape.
I feel her pain, I really do. In fact, I’ve vowed not to go to another wedding unless it’s my own. It’s too stressful. It stirs up a whole pot of anxiety, and there are way too many questions from elderly relatives. It’s the ultimate spinster gauntlet.
I don’t think I’d have agreed to wear purple next to those cheekbones either.
Still, she’s putting on a good show for the cameras, and gets a gold star for effort.
Read the rest of this so-called ‘story’ here.
I thought I’d share with you a small percentage as they are so amusing. (Cheap entertainment is all the rage these days don’t you know.)
I have a special place in my heart for “boot leg children”. Better than “low-rise children”, I suppose. Enjoy!
Bad ass microphone
Kim Cattrall fat
brazilian wax make vagina fatter
spinster jennifer aniston
“boot leg” children
frying pan with brain
cameron diaz jeans in boots
crappy donkey pinata
justin bieber 2011 with his eyes closed (WTF is this all about?! – ed)
haircuts to disguise crepey neck