Guns & Mom Jeans

Dear George Clooney,

Rumor has it that you are in British Columbia.  And not Vancouver, our own version of Hollywood, where a celebrity could be spotted and it was no big deal.  But in Enderby, my goodness, how exciting.  Just how did I learn this? Why in my first production meeting at the theatre company.  I stayed just long enough to ask a million questions of the unsuspecting person who mentioned this in passing, jam an apple fritter into my mouth, and leave early to go see a man about an avocado colored hide-a-bed.  The height of professionalism and sophistication, darling.

George? My George? In my province? Be still my heart! I do apologize for gushing like a school-girl, but y’all know how I feel about that salt and pepper stallion.

clonneyAnd if Clooney isn’t your jam, may I add to this sexy stew and say that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson will also be in the film?

dwayne_johnson_99OMG, we are practically neighbours, should probably pop by for a cup of sugar and then stay forever.  Mmm, talk about being stuck between a Rock and a Hard Place.

George+Clooney+Kid+Rock+Spike+TV+Guys+Choice+wINp7893k2glWhoa.  Now that’s a horse of a different color.  Wrong kind of Rock altogether.

George Clooney

I’m just kidding…George and I, we like to joke around. We laugh and laugh all the way to Lake Como.  I mean, we would have a blast, if he would only take my calls, and his lawyers would cool it with the restraining orders.  It’s not illegal to love you George!

I have this friend, her name is Harmony.  The other night we and two others stayed up late into the night talking about all kinds of things.  Ms Harmony told us how she felt about the Rock.  That she would climb him like a tree and swing on his body like an adorable monkey on a tree branch.  Her language was far more offensive than this.  But you get the drift.  You know what I’m thinking?  That she and I come find you.  I’m talking road-trip, Thelma and Louise style.

t and l Obviously, we’ll tweak a few things, no one will get raped…(except for the Rock evidently), and we might skip driving off a cliff with Harvey Keitel running behind us in slow motion.  But the guns, car chases, cigarette smoking, and adorable bad-girl outfits, seedy motel rooms…that just sounds like a fun weekend.


You know what my favorite thing about blogging is? One minute I’m writing a letter to George Clooney, and then suddenly I’ve implicated my friend Harmony into molesting a wrestler-turned-actor, while firing guns and rocking some seriously awesome 90′s mom jeans.


So, lets just close this wildly drawn circle.  Mr Clooney, George, if I may. How about you call up your friend, The Rock…(which brings up an important question, in your mobile phone, is it “Rock”? “The Rock”, “Rock, The”, or just plan ole Dwayne?)  Whatever you call him, let’s set up a little double date, with me and my fabulous friend? We’ll be the dusty, gun wielding broads in the high-waisted jeans ready to take you wherever you need to go.

celebritycars-jpg_141324Images Courtesy of Google

Prison Sentence

Is anyone else loving the latest Netflix series “Orange is the New Black”? It’s growing on me.


It’s causing us to speak in ‘prison hypotheticals’, how we would spend our time if we were ever behind bars.


We’ve thrown around the normal responses.  I’d read a lot, exercise, do yoga, write.  Like you’d go into prison all scrawny and stupid, and then come out wordly, with a masters and abs you could grate cheese over.

prisonerBut, what we are imagining is not prison, it’s more what would you do if you had to be on holiday for a year.  Prison would be rife with danger.   Man alive, I would not want to imagine how much of a target I’d be in the slammer.  I’d be sold for a pack of cigarettes in ten seconds flat.

girls in prison

In this program, a yuppy New Yorker is serving a sentence for some incidental drug smuggling she did…once…ten years ago.  And so far, she is not coping well.  Who can blame her, that would be a tough crowd.

vintage prison

“Imagine trying to find a seat in the cafeteria on the first day of prison?” Ben asks.

“I’d be more afraid of the first shower” I grimace.

To be separated from loved ones, to be treated dismissively. I don’t like to be yelled at, I reckon I would cry every single day in prison, until I could eventually start my own gang.  But not a violent gang, we’d have a book club, and talk about George Clooney.


But think of the material you’d get from a prison sentence.  The source material came from the memoir, and this excerpt is from the website:

Following a plea deal for her 10-year-old crime, Piper Kerman spent a year in the infamous women’s correctional facility in Danbury, Connecticut, which she found to be no “Club Fed.” In Orange is the New Black: My Year in a Women’s Prison, Piper takes readers into B-Dorm, a community of colorful, eccentric, vividly drawn women. Their stories raise issues of friendship and family, mental illness, the odd cliques and codes of behavior, the role of religion, the uneasy relationship between prisoner and jailor, and the almost complete lack of guidance for life after prison.

I mean, that book practically wrote itself.  It’s the kind of break a writer can only dream of.  And now she’s doing speaking engagements all over, and is on the board of directors for women’s prisons.  Talk about lemons from lemonade.  And why not? Best to do something with all that time.  That and get wicked six-pack-abs.

orange-is-the-new-blackAll Images Courtesy of Google

Day in the Life

My co-worker Jessica, who I have not seen for a week, approaches me in her usual jovial manner.  “Hey–how are you? I’ve been reading the blog…lots of movie reviews huh?”  She makes the kind of face you wouldn’t want a doctor to make while looking over your chart.  “I mean…they’re good…but, I want to know more about you.  What did you buy at the grocery store? How do you spend your days? What’s your routine like? These are things you should explore”.

Those are excellent questions Jessica, and my apologies to those who read my words voraciously, but crave further knowledge about my “inner life”.

I start most mornings by walking about the property…

Duchess of Cambridge takes Lupo for a walk in Kensington Park Gardens.

I’m going to stop you right there.  Yes, I do look exactly like Kate Middleton. Is it frustrating to be her super attractive doppelganger? Of course it is.  People ask me all the time what it’s like to be as beautiful (if not more so) than the future Queen…and I say that I simply don’t know any different.  Even as a tiny baby in my pram, I was elegant and breathtaking.  So what’s it like to be so beautiful? That’s like asking what it’s like to breathe…I just do, I just am.  But I’m not Kate, and I’d really appreciate it if she’d stop calling me for beauty tips and fashion advice– get your own look girlfriend!


When dressing myself, I really like to take my time crafting my look.  I have a hair and makeup team, there’s a dozen or so individuals, working tirelessly to polish the diamond that is…well, me.  My closet, oops sorry closets, there’s one for every home, but wherever I am, these spaces are large enough to land a plane if necessary.  At the beach house, it’s a lot of linen and silk, lots of white, lots of  flowing dresses, you could imagine, my kind of wealth affords you only the finest fabric.  In my city home, it’s a lot of black, but again, only the most luscious material.  I’m not a hobo darling, so I don’t dress like one.


Definitely not me, that’s Paula Abdul, a very dear friend who I call “Crazy Sauce”.  Look at her sitting on my belt holder and sunglasses display case.  What a hoot!  (PS-Do NOT let her mix Percocets with tequila, though–you will lose her for at least an 24-hours, and will most likely have to post her bail).

In order to keep my body in it’s peak physical condition, I have the most magnificent trainer: Johnny Hardbody, but those of us in the know call him “Johnny Bod”.   But because my body is already impeccable, I mostly just watch “The Bod”  punch large slabs of meat a la Rocky while I smoke cigarettes. By my third morning cocktail, its probably ten-thirty or eleven in the morning, and I’m feeling pretty loose.  I start to get ‘hands on’ with my trainer.  Sure, it makes him uncomfortable, but I just throw fistfuls of dirty money at his washboard abs and insist that he dance for me.  And he does dance…they all do.  If I’m feeling a bit bloated, like I maybe  I accidentally ate something the week before, and it’s really pushing the limits of my couture, I just sort of lay there as “The Bod”  stretches my limbs to and fro.

Once the hard work has been accomplished, I am ready to head into the office and do the real work, the writing.  But first, I just sit in front of my many leather-bound books and ooze sexuality.


At the end of the day, I make time for my husband.


Whoops! sorry, wrong slide. Not my husband, though George was rather persistent.  I said “George, you don’t love me, you love the idea of me”, and then I got on the jetliner, not looking back once.  Naturally, he was  devastated,  he sent endless cards and presents–claiming that I was “the best he never had”.  He then dated every other brunette under the sun, searching for a suitable substitute.  Get over it Clooney, I’ve moved on…so should you.

As a general rule, I don’t eat much, so by nightfall, I usually go Gwyneth on this one and have a Guinness because it says that I’m posh, but also “down to earth”.


But, at the end of the day, when it’s time for bed, that’s when the fun begins.

Vogue Dita foto 1 055

Pajamas are for sissies darling, you haven’t lived until you’ve slumbered in an evening gown and high heels.

So, dear Jessica, I hope this glimpse is sufficient.  Of course, this is an average day without press junkets, visits from my many celebrity friends, or when the nanny insists that I look my children in the face.


But despite the unearthly beauty, the money, the fame, I’m just a regular woman trying to live life to the fullest.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on the groundskeeper, he’s been giving me so much grief lately, and you know how hard it is to get good help these days. Images Courtesy of Google

Red Beard

When my mother was a young woman, she knew this super foxy guy with a super groovy beard.  Total bearded bell-bottomed babe-fest until he inexplicably shaved his face, and to my mother’s chagrin she realized that he didn’t have a chin.  Now I was old enough to be told this anecdote, but young enough that I really couldn’t understand how someone didn’t have a chin.  “Like it’s just his lips and then nothing?”  But that story really stuck with me; imagine that something as simple as a beard could totally create or destroy your appeal.

I’m going to just put this out there.  I love a good beard. I enjoy neatly groomed facial hair–I preferred tousled, bearded Ryan Gosling in “The Notebook” .

ryan g beard

Many fine men had mighty fine beards.  Whatever your feelings are about Jesus, you’ve got to admit that he had a rocking look going for him.

Jesus beard

Ernest Hemingway, Santa Claus; so similar you’d get them confused.

hemingway beard

Vintage Santa Claus Cigarette Ads (1)There is something so rugged and manly about a beard; when Clooney and Affleck got all “lets grow beards for Argo award season, I was totally supportive.  And they sort of consider me their muse–so they listen to me.  So you are welcome, I am responsible for this:

george-clooney-ben-affleck-oscarsCourtesy of

And I’m not adverse to an excellent mustache; I love Tom Selleck in Magnum PI…that is actually me he is talking to on his giant phone.

“No, I’m just blogging about you right now…no I won’t make fun of your chest hair”.


But let me make this clear before we go any further into this facial hair forest.  Not all you card carrying penis-slingers are eligible for beard-dom.  Sporting play-off beards for such occasions as the –Stanley Bowl or Super Cup—whatever the fuck sport is ruining my life that day, is not always acceptable.  I hate to say it–Movember, the growing of mustaches to raise money for prostate cancer awareness–it’s a noble cause, but it’s such a long, filthy-looking growth road.  I once had a boyfriend during that month that grew the saddest, weakest little rat ‘stache.  It was the ‘Rudy’ of facial hair.  From a distance it looked like a dirt smear.  I could have grown a better mustache.  That November was, historically speaking, the longest month of my life.

My husband grows a nice beard; it’s actually quite magnificent.  It’s copper in color, and with his blue eyes and tall stature, I just want to throw him in a plaid shirt and watch him chop wood.  All winter long Ben’s beard grew mightily.  This was his second beard, the first time he grew it out was during a long road trip up the Western Australian coastline.  He looked as rugged as the territory around us.  Once home, he just shaved it off without warning, just came out of the bathroom a bald faced stranger.  The most recent time, Ben felt that with the impending summer heat, that it was best to lose the winter whiskers.  I tried to fight for his facial hair, but to no avail.  Ben was going to shave his face, and there was nothing I could do.  He shaved his head and his face was hit with instant regret.  A moment ago he looked like:


Courtesy of [email protected]

…and now he looked like a really tall new born baby.  He stared at his naked face in the mirror, and picked up a clump of hair from the sink and tried to stick it onto his face.  “I miss my beard…I’ve made a mistake”.  I’m standing in the door…laughing through my devastation.  “You look like Daddy Warbucks“.  He looks at me; “I don’t know who that is”.


“Yes, you do”.  And then I start babbling about “Annie” and Carol Burnett, and don’t know whether I am helping anyone.

I mean, he’s got a nice face, and I’m all for clean-shaven, it’s just that you get used to a certain look.  There’s a pretty crucial scene in “A Star is Born” when Kris Kristofferson tries to chop his luscious salt and pepper facial locks (intense, I know).  Barbra Streisand stops him, wrenches the scissors out of his hand,  and says: “I don’t even know what you’ll look like, I may not even like you without a beard”.   And he doesn’t shave, they embrace passionately and it is glorious.


It’s a good thing he didn’t waste his magnificent face muzzle, but that’s the good thing about beards, they always grow back.

beardImages Courtesy of Google

Either/Or 2…Seriously Guys, Who Would You Rather?

It’s getting a little out of hand, this Clooney-Gosling fiasco.  We are like a deadlocked jury, and there is no chance of a majority rule.  During a coffee break at the beginning of the work week, we are sitting around the table, poring over “People” magazines. We are once again, discussing the admirable qualities of these two men when a woman from another department, who had obviously over heard our endless deliberations, pipes up: “What about Bradley Cooper?”  We all glance at each other with sour expressions.  What about Bradley Cooper?  I’m sure in some other circles, Bradley Cooper is attractive, but to us, he wouldn’t even make it through the first round.  But it did bring up a valuable point…what about other men? Surely “Glooney” doesn’t encompass all we love in our celebrity men.  And from there, a magical week of hypotheticals began, filling the kitchen like musky cologne, intoxicating us amid our daily tasks, causing fits of fantasy and uncontrollable giggles.  It also lead to the rather nifty invention of “Jackman Beckham-Craig”, a hunky man-strosity which was almost as fantastic as Kathleen’s invention a few weeks back: Men made entirely out of brownie—and please, do hold the nuts. 

With the help of the most recent “People’s Sexiest Man Alive” edition, we created a rather lengthy list of prospects.  We spent our breaks developing a small chart with such significant mathematical possibilities that the janitor from “Good Will Hunting” would scratch his head in confusion.  A round robin of sorts, meant to lead us to a sexual resolution pitted the likes of against: Ben Affleck vs. Matt Damon/ Ryan Reynolds vs. Channing Tatum/ Leonardo DiCaprio vs. Matthew McConaughey/ Gerald Butler vs. Hugh Jackman/ (and of course) Ryan vs. George.   I know what you are thinking…how is a girl to choose?   Looking at the list over lunch, Jessica –our resident Filipino and official young person—points out a gleaming error on this list.  “Where are all the minorities? We need some colour on this list”.  I flip through the weathered magazine dutifully, “Ok… lets us find some ‘bruthas’ for this round robin”.  Jessica looks at me as if I just mentioned Bradley Cooper.  “Don’t say ‘brothers’ like that…you can’t pull it off”.  She says the same thing when I try to inspire the team by suggesting that we get this ‘par-tay’ started.  “It’s not a party…it’s just not”, she shakes her head sadly.  “That’s why they call it work”.

The group does briefly toy with the notion of allowing this list—an already daunting one—to include actors of all eras: “Are you suggesting a Sexiest Man Alive—living or dead edition?” you ask me.  “Yes”, I would answer…”For but a moment…it was discussed”.  But then we decided against it for fear it would come down to Robert Redford and Paul Newman circa “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” and then nobody would get out of this work week alive.  So we focus on the present, trying to add more dimensions of colour to our hunk rainbow.  “What about Shemar Moore?” Kathleen pipes up.  “Who?” Jessica and I respond in near-unison. “You know! That guy on Criminal Minds?  He used to be on “Young and the Restless”?” her voice trails off at the sight of our blank faces.  “Never mind, just Google him tonight, and he’ll find his way on the list”.  Poor Kathleen often has to tell us to Google things we are generationally distanced from.  Jessica especially— she only recently revealed that she while sometimes laughs with us, she does not always understand the reference.  When Kathleen regales us with a tale of seeing, and nearly swooning at the sight of Richard Grieco on the streets Vancouver during his “21 Jump Street” heyday, we cackle heartily until Jessica’s laugh fades and smile droops.  “Sorry…who’s Richard Grieco?”

Kathleen may never live that celebrity crush down…nor will she for occasionally dropping the term ‘bod’ in a sentence.  “Are you seriously saying ‘he’s got the nicest bod’? That’s like me saying ‘par-tay’.  That’s like my mother still using the term ‘jiggy’, it gets to the point that you can’t even use the word ironically anymore.  It gets to a point that unless you are Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, you have to grow out of being cool. “We’re not kids anymore Kath—we can’t sling the lingo around like we used to”. Speaking of embarrassing moments, there was an unfortunate addition to the People spread, a take on the whole “Magic Mike” phenomenon.  Basically anyone remotely famous, who was named Mike or Michael, had a stripper style pictorial.  Oh dear, Michael Bolton needs not expose his chest hair like that, and why, on God’s green earth is Michael Buble in a cowboy get up?  Still, embarrassing chaps and lassos aside, Buble is considered for the list.  “Would you –Du-ble?” I ask the girls.  (Holy Moses, aren’t my puns clever?)  The answer, (and it had nothing to do with my awesome pun), that no…we would not ‘du-ble’.  Listen—no one has a bigger soft spot for the man than me…I would go to a concert in a heartbeat, sing along to every song and sob hysterically about sixteen times, but I would not get jiggy with Mr Buble…not all whored up like a dime store cowboy…no thank you.   

Eventually, we narrowed the list down—Ben Affleck defeated Matt Damon, Hugh Jackman destroyed Gerald Butler and Mario Lopez was eliminated in favour of the Old Spice Guy…ahem, “People” magazine didn’t have a terribly colourful rainbow either.  From there we pitted all the winners together, (we threw in Shemar Moore in at the last minute because, though everyone forgot to include him, Kathleen refused to let him go) and narrowed it down to three: Jackman, Clooney, and Gosling.  To resolve the matter once and for all, I scrunch up the little pieces of paper, mix them up and hand them out around the table.  Jessica got Ryan, Kathleen got Hugh, and I got George.  There, issue resolved.  All was right with the world.  Jessica, who had wanted Gosling all along, now has her head resting on her hand, her face forlorn. She sighs, “Now I kind of wish I had gotten Hugh Jackman”.  The fact is, any one of the men would have been wonderful, but the conversations had begun to feel as though these were real possibilities.    And that by blogging about it, made those possibilities all the more real.  But all we had left were tiny bits of paper with names written in pencil. But this is a technological age, there are always nerdy teens who post ‘half-joking’ bits on You-Tube, asking famous women to be their prom date, and these women go!  Why, just today on the CBC 2 morning show, the announcer said that model Kate Upton agreed to take a dateless boy to his upcoming dance. “It proves that sometimes all you have to do is ask”, the announcer concluded.  So who knows? Maybe Hugh Jackman trolls the internet looking for women in gumboots and hair nets who smell of garlic and tomato paste?  Maybe Ryan Gosling has an upcoming film role as a prolific salsa maker and wants us to show him how it’s done…and we could all take turns standing behind him at the giant Hobart food processor, guiding his hands a la Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in “Ghost”.  And maybe…just maybe, someone in Clooney’s entourage would show this to him jokingly, and without a hint of humour,  he’d stand up and insist that someone fire up his chopper “This is no laughing matter…these women need to see my Italian villa”.  And we would go with him, and we would not disappoint…gumboots and all.                 


Either / Or

Amongst the various daily tasks in the prep kitchen, my two coworkers and I tackle some extremely serious issues.  As we clean, I often like to throw out a “what if” kind of question  and the answer can defy space, time and finances. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go and what would you do?” Lounging on a hot beach in Mexico, sipping cappuccinos in a stylish Parisian cafe, and sightseeing in Cuba, were amongst the answers.  Most recently I asked:  “If you could see any band (living or dead) in concert, who would it be”?  The question developed into a Top Five.  Kathleen, a mother in her early 50′s, mentioned The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin.  I thought of Florence and the Machine, Amy Winehouse, Billie Holiday, Jeff Buckley and Joni Mitchell, and wondered aloud as to whether going to Woodstock could count.  Jessica, 20, comes within earshot and I ask her the question.  She pauses, scrunches her face in thought and smiles decisively, nodding her head in earnest:  “Beyonce”.  (Hey, why not?)  It’s silly, but it lets the mind wander and adds a dash of imagination to the common, ordinary work day.   But there is one topic that arises again and again, without an answer, like an ancient riddle written in a secret language, an impossible equation never to be solved.

“Who would you rather sleep with…Ryan Gosling or George Clooney“?

Its an important question, and I invite you to take a second with it, soak in the idea as if it were a piping hot bath.  Jessica leaps onto Gosling “that body, those abs!” whereas Kathleen leans towards Clooney.  “He’s like an Old Hollywood movie star, like Cary Grant”.  For me, its akin to the conflict I suffer every time I go out for breakfast…do I want savory or sweet? Should I get the strawberry waffles or do I want the eggs Benedict?  Again, there isn’t a correct answer, they are both perfectly delicious, but it’s about what you need in the moment…which is usually me getting something sweet, wishing I had chosen savory, then picking bacon off my husband’s plate, which he loves, incidentally.  I totally get the Gosling appeal, his cool boyish demeanor, his heartbreaking bone structure and dreamy blue eyes.   As for Clooney, I love his salt and pepper locks, his style, his manner.  He would be classy, yet cheeky, look great in a tux and would always have liquor on hand. With Ryan Gosling you get Disneyland and skinny jeans, with George Clooney it’s Italy and crisp white collared shirts.

Writing about such a heated topic requires an acceptable level of internet research.  What a sexy web I am weaving, my blog sandwiched in-between the Gosling and Clooney internet page tabs.  I have stumbled across some breaking news though, apparently Clooney and his latest squeeze are “on the rocks”…which should be a surprise to no one.  What kills me though is the report stating that Ms. Stacy Keibler ‘dislikes’ spending months hibernating with George for months on end in Lake Como, Italy.  You must really question a person’s  mental fitness when anything other than months on end in an Italian villa with George Clooney makes sense, especially when the option is in the bed next to you.  Kathleen and I have united over the idea that his villa would be simply divine.  “You just know he has a speedboat” I sigh.  “Of course he does, he’s George Clooney”, Kathleen agrees. And our minds wander to late night feasts of seafood and pasta, gathering around the candlelit table with heaps of wine and celebrity friends.  But just when the scale is tipping in favor of George, Jessica mentions Gosling’s beard in “The Notebook” and the indecision presses on.  The conversation goes from the kitchen to the lunch room, and we weigh the pros and cons as if there is a time limit before the offer expires.  As I write about this, and pore over  photos of the two actors, I ask my husband his thoughts.  He stared at me for a moment, and did not provide a comment, he’s mildly offended by this topic and is still getting over my once feverish appreciation for Hugh Jackman in “Australia”.  As far as work goes, the discussions and comparisons will wage on, as if we three are a deadlocked jury.  But I can’t help but wonder…could I choose Clooney and just pick a little Gosling off of your plate?