My husband reminds me that he is a REAL writer because he has TALENT. He sometimes encounters writers' block. But me, the blogger, who writes, uh rather, whines, about having to eat gluten free, is just a blogger. Not a real writer. So, I'm having bloggers' block today because I can't think of something great to write about.
You see, my husband believes that we, in the blogger world, engage in narcissistic rants. Online diaries. Not real writing. Real writers are talented, trained professionals. We bloggers are basically trained seals.
Ah, showbiz, now there's something to write about...
Do not for one minute think that showbiz folks are hip and cool. They aren't. Here's proof. I told my showbiz pals that I started a blog. Here's their responses:
"Wow, that's great. What's a blog?"
"How much did it cost to get this done for you?"
"What are followers?"
"Do I have to COMMENT? DO I HAVE TO USE MY REAL NAME???"
Yes, you have to use your real name so 6 zillion people will start sending you their scripts and resumes. This you see, is their great FEAR. The fear of being discovered. Of being tortured with "can you pleeeeeeezzzzzeee get me a job in showbiz??"
My showbiz pals live in their bubbles. Often behind secure walls with Ivy league secretaries. (They prefer "Assistants," but hey, a rose is a rose, right? Are they not schlepping coffee, rolling calls, taking notes? Why is it so demeaning to be called a Secretary, anyway?)
My showbiz gal pals are skinny and tough. However, I find it amusing that they hide cigarettes and God knows what else, in drawers and sneak puffs on rooftops, in order to maintain and perpetuate the image adhered to by John Molloy's "Dress for Success" disciples.
I'm still unclear about all this; do women have to act like men to survive in showbiz? Or can they be their voluptuous sexy selves? What would men like to work with in the workplace? (Ha-ha this oughtta be interesting!)
Lunches with my skinny girlfriends in showbiz starts and ends with salads. The kind with no dressing, no bacon, no egg, no cheese, no asparagus, no radishes, no anchovies, light on the chicken, but "could we have a little, just a VERY little balsamic vinegar? Oh, but ON the side, please? Oh, and an Arnold Palmer please, but very, very light on the lemonade, almost like an iced tea, but not quite, ya know? Okay? Could you read it back, please?"
Is it any wonder waiters suddenly have tons of fodder for their encyclopedia-like tell all books they are hawking on the morning talk shows now?
I'm especially intrigued with the way my pals EAT salads.
Step one: Dip fork into dressing on the SIDE. Ah, but just a little dip. NOOOO do NOT drench it. Hey, NO drenching the fork!! That's CHEATING.
Step two: Plunge fork quickly into salad while keeping micro drop of dressing ON the fork. (This oughtta be a Reality Show, I swear, "Anorexics on Parade.")
Step three: Now into mouth, but slllooowwwwlllly; you want to enjoy the rich and tart TASTEFULNESS of your delicious salad. --- sans bacon, egg, beans, radishes, peppers, cheese, chicken, dressing....I'm sitting there thinking enjoy WHAT TASTE? What is left in there to TASTE??
Meanwhile, I'm completely intimidated. I'm looking at everyone's salads, including mine, which looks dreadful. They are all eating in unison, step one, step two, and step three. What is wrong with me? I'm dying for a hamburger. A gigantic one with a whole bunch of french fries swimming in a bottle of catsup.
And these gals aren't even suffering from being the "gluten for punishment" newbie that I am, and STILL there is NO bread at this table. The waiter was shoved aside with threats of violence should a basket of bread appear within our zip code.
I'm starving and miserable, however suddenly thoughts of the new gluten free Red Velvet Sprinkles cupcake are invading my brain with excitement and pleasure.
I will soon be free. Free to EAT my heart out. My thoughts are only on the cupcake. Maybe not just one. Maybe two? It's GF free after all...(I know, I know, GF is NOT fat free, I discovered that on the scale...) But after suffering through this lunch, I deserve at least two cupcakes. My loins are on fire, my heart is racing, and I'm already figuring out the fastest route to the nearest Sprinkles.
There's a gal in my locker room at the gym who is clearly anorexic. Her bones protrude everywhere. I'm dying to just force a Whopper down her throat to save her life. I overheard her say, "Everyone thinks I'm anorexic. But, I'm not. I eat like a horse." Really??? I've seen horses eat, and she's no horse. In fact, she probably had a salad for lunch. ...or what is sometimes referred to as a salad....