Chelsea Handler’s Hand-Me-Downs

Photo: Joe ShlabotnikChelsea Handler has two things that I lack:  blond hair and big breasts.  She used to have another thing: Ted Harbert, President and CEO of Comcast Entertainment Group, the company that owns E! Entertainment, which airs her show Chelsea Lately.  In Los Angeles, talent and a dime will get you ten cents.  There are three unwritten rules to achieving success as a woman in Hollywood: one is dye your hair blond, two is get breast implants, three is sleep your way to the top.  When I arrived here from Canada, I was too young and naïve to subscribe to any of those philosophies.  Although at one point I did have blond hair, it was not Playboy blond with down-to-the-ass extensions like that of most Hollywood starlets.  My breasts were a solid 34A on a cool day with a stiff wind.  I was shot down at countless auditions by casting directors who openly confessed that the network would not hire me unless I had a 34C chest.  I will not say which network (hint: small animal that makes for a beautiful fur coat), but I think that kind of discrimination is lawsuit material.  As for sleeping my way to the top, at the time I was sleeping my way sideways while financially supporting my bartender/actor boyfriend who drank as much as he poured and popped antidepressants and Vicodin out of a Pez dispenser.  That relationship ended well.

I recall buying every breast enhancement device from jelly inserts to some Victoria’s Secret crank-em-up bra and driving three hours to an audition in San Diego for some cheesy show like Silk Stalkings or The Chronicle.  The role was a Russian hooker, which I could do well as my grandparents were from Russia and I heard the accent my entire life.  After I aced the audition, the casting director said I had a callback the next day which meant either sleeping on the couch at my aunt’s place and going to dinner at some overpriced, mediocre strip mall Claim Jumper or driving all the way back to L.A. and back to San Diego the next morning.  “Oh, and one more thing,” she said as I was walking out the door.  “They want someone with large breasts.  Could you stop off at Victoria’s Secret and buy a padded bra and crank those babies up a bit?”  Sure, no problem.  Couldn’t she see they were already cranked as far as they could go?  I was breast-fallen, I mean crestfallen as I said "Dasvidaniya" to the role of Russian hooker.  From that moment on, I knew that without plastic surgery, hair extensions and the desire to sleep my way to the top, my acting career was doomed.

Photo: Carter Smith for ElleIn the November 2010 issue of Elle Magazine, 38-year-old actress Gwyneth Paltrow spoke out about one of the industry’s dirtiest secrets – the casting couch – as did Charlize Theron, Helen Mirren, Megan Fox and Lisa Rinna.  Of course, none of them were willing to kiss and tell about whether the men who propositioned them actually succeeded, but it has long been rumored that Sharon Stone traded sexual favors to advance her career.  Just look at the press Monica Lewinsky got after getting it on with President Clinton and tell me that Nicole Kidman’s career didn’t hurt from her marriage to the questionably straight Tom Cruise.

While I am not accusing the raunchy comedienne of sleeping her way to the top, it certainly didn’t hurt her career to swap spit with the CEO of a major network.  To set the record straight, Chelsea and Ted started dating in 2006 and were living in sin prior to the inception of her show Chelsea Lately, which debuted on July 17, 2007.  Whatever Chelsea is or isn’t doing seems to be working: her books are selling and she has a contract with E! until 2012 – I admire her for that.  

Chelsea is one of my favorite authors.  I loved her first two books, My Horizontal Life and Are You There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea?  Obnoxiously funny, taking no prisoners when it comes to humor, Chelsea Handler is a total joke slut; someone who will go to any length for a laugh, even if it means berating her ex-boyfriend Ted Harbert (who presumably paved the way for her show) by calling him a “giant toddler” in her latest book Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang.  Maybe Ted is a giant toddler, but if you’re done with him Chels, you mind paying it forward and giving me his number?  Perhaps he just got sick of you trashing him every chance you could and is looking for a more nurturing, appreciative woman.  One thing's for sure, it couldn’t hurt my career to date him.

Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger…

But she’ ain’t, and here’s proof…

I recently agreed to a date with a man from Vegas who dabbles in real estate (to the tune of several hundred million) and has a house on the water in Newport Beach, approximately an hour drive from L.A.  As he was driving up from Newport to meet me at the Roof Garden Restaurant at The Peninsula Beverly Hills, he called from his Maybach (one of two he owned, along with a long list of other penis cars including two Bentleys, a Porsche racing car, a Ferrari, and my personal favorite – a Cadillac Escalade, or as like to call it “The Compensator”). Evidently he had no idea how to use the GPS in his $430,000 toy, as he normally had a driver.  Today was my lucky day.  I got to give him block-by-block directions from the 405 freeway to the destination, a mere 1.2 miles away, and he still managed to get turned around a half dozen times.  

© Glenn Francis www.PacificProDigital.comHe finally arrived and ambled over to the table where I was seated – smack dab center of the patio.  A towering 6’4”, he looked and sounded like a distant relative of Herman Munster with long gangly arms, nails bitten to the quick, and saggy alcoholic eyes like Larry Hagman, circa 1995, prior to his liver-transplant. At the time, Larry Hagman was 64 and not well; my date claimed to be only 52.  I was a huge fan of Larry Hagman in I Dream of Jeanie and Dallas, but that didn’t make me want to date a celebrity look-a-like. Despite Munster’s stated youth, he kept talking about his bucket list, which included going to every Nascar race in the world, every major league baseball stadium in the US, the US Open, The French Open, Wimbledon and the Australian Open, and pretty much every sporting even under the sun.  I could take the tennis matches and the Monaco Grand Prix would be kinda cool, but it is a rather lame bucket list if you ask me.  If that was the list and he wanted to do it with me, I would hope that he’d kick the bucket sooner than later.  It certainly doesn’t match my bucket list, partly because I’m too young to have one yet.  Other than talking about his list, he talked about his real estate holdings – thousands and thousands of acres in Vegas, Dallas and Dana Point.  He admits to having barely graduated high school (like I didn’t notice) and learned everything he knows about business from reading books by Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and the likes.  Mr. Munster never asked me one thing about myself.  When he did refer to me, he made asinine jokes, such as “Did your mother lift weights, because you’re a real dumbbell.”  Now, that would be marginally funny, if he weren’t such a dumbbell himself and if I actually were a dumbbell.  But, since my IQ registers at least double his, it was rather pathetic.  He then bragged about how many one-line zingers he had stored in his head and I thought that is exactly where he should keep them.

During the agonizing two-hour brunch, the service staff all but vacated the premises and got me wondering if I had overlooked a fire alarm drill.  Finally brunch ended and we made our way to the valet parking where he waited for his Maybach, which was parked out front on proud display. As I was paying for my parking (he did not offer to pay), he asked me how much it was and made a comment on how he’d have to give the valet more than a $10 for his car since that would only be a $2 tip.  He pulled out a twenty.  Still not offering to pay for my valet.  I guess he left his manners in the glovebox of the Maybach.  In this era, it is standard dating protocol for a man to pay for a woman’s parking or taxi, as it is no longer acceptable for a man to pick a woman up at her home on a first date (due to safety reasons, though it is always polite to offer).

With a house in the best development in Summerlin, the most elite suburb of Vegas, a waterfront home in Newport Beach, and his various toys – I can only assume private jet was on the list – this guy would be a magnet to the multitude of blond haired, tits-on-a-stick, aging plastic surgery Playboy bunny retirees who grace the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in their Ugg/miniskirt combos and stripperesque clothes with their nipples barely covered covered, but he is repellent to a woman like myself.  I would be popping pills, shooting heroin in the bathroom and have alcoholic eyes myself if I spent more than a day with this man.  How one woman married him for 15+ years and another for 7 years, is beyond me.  Oh, right… the 15-year marriage landed the wife and mother-of-two a 12-million dollar settlement, and the 7-year marriage, well she walked out one day – loaded up the moving trucks and tossed the keys on the front porch – while he was boating on Lake Mead.  That divorce is pending.  I have to admire these women for their tenacity and endurance.  Were I a gold digger, I would have been married seven times over and would be commuting via private jet from my vineyard in Napa to the Van Nuys airport where my driver would await me in my Mercedes sedan (I would never be so nouveau riche gauche to own a Maybach) and take me to my 3-acre waterfront home on the cliffs of Point Dume, Malibu. 

Snob, yes, most definitely I am.  Stickler for manners and social graces, agreed.  But, gold digger?  I wish. 

“I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.”

I know you come to my blog to read about the horrors of my dating life, and I assure you there will be plenty of opportunity for that.  In fact, I had another disastrous date today.  But, I simply cannot go to sleep tonight without acknowledging this tragic news.  Actor Leslie Nielsen, who was most noted for his role as the accident-prone Frank Drebin in the Naked Gun comedies and the hapless doctor in Airplane! died today at a hospital near his home in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  He was 84.  How is this relevant to a dating blog, you ask? 

Photo: Alan Light

In my mind, it’s extremely relevant.  Whenever I am asked to describe my father, I say he was a cross between Leslie Nielsen and Donald Sutherland.  Like them, my father was a tall, handsome, silver-haired fox; highly educated, extremely charismatic, he could perform a flawless fox trot, carry on intellectual conversations or simply sit around with a bunch of guys and crack jokes.  He was chameleon-like, as actors are, and could be just as comfortable in a tent full of Bedouins or a conference room full of Nobel Prize winners.  When my father entered a crowded room sporting a smile as wide as Texas, the entire room lit up from his presence.  Everyone wanted to be his friend.  Not only do I aspire to be as gracious, gregarious and well-loved as my father was, but I aspire to find those qualities in a man. This is no small task. 

I ask myself, on the eve of Leslie Nielsen’s passing, are these characteristics of an endangered species of man? Do I have to date men that are old enough to be my father in order to find graciousness, manners, and style?  Or, is it possible that some fathers have passed these remarkable qualities on to their sons?  I would hope so, or I am forever destined to be single. Maybe I am looking for a Canadian-born man such as Nielsen, Sutherland and my father.  If only it were that simple.  The thought does give me pause. 

It is a very somber day as we have lost one of the greatest comedians of our time and a truly great man.  In honor of his passing, I leave you with this:

Frank: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.

Jane: Goodyear?

Frank: No, the worst.

Rat vs. Vol(e)

First impressions can be deceiving.  I recently met a man online who was attractive, highly educated, in his early fifties and relatively successful.  He seemed like an excellent dating candidate.  We had two enjoyable phone conversations and agreed to meet for lunch.  Shortly after the second call, I received this email.  Needless to say, lunch was cancelled.

Dear Lennie

I am getting way ahead of myself and I'm not presuming this is going anywhere, but I thought I'd lay out a deal killer to save us both some time and agony. This is largely about relationships and intimacy.  Other topics like complete honesty and trust can be dealt with later. I shouldn't focus in on the sex stuff, probably doesn't make a good first impression, but at least you know where I’m coming from.

First: I am a Vol not a Rat. Male Rats have random sex, generally only once with a partner and then move on to another female rat, having many partners. Vols find a single partner, have sex nonstop with that partner and bond for life.  Now, I've slept with more than one woman and you are likely not a virgin, but my point is that even at this age, I take commitment and intimacy very seriously. 

Second:  I am 100% disease free and intend to stay that way. I have found herpes particularly prevalent and don't buy off on the Valtrex solution. Of course, there is much worse and many people don't even know they have something until they're tested.  Worse, not all tests are foolproof so it's possible something doesn't get picked up unless there's an outbreak.  So, before things really go anywhere, I insist my partner and I get blood tests and exchange the results.  It's a bit personal, but so is having sex.  If you have an STD, it's just not going to work.  It doesn't make you a bad person and maybe it makes me a jerk but I've dealt with this issue more than once and if I don't address it up front it can get nasty.

Third:  If and when a partner and I decide to be intimate, not to spoil the romance, but we talk a lot about it first. Understanding each other’s likes and dislikes, concerns, whatever and being comfortable about it makes it better. We just need to do it in a way that also gets us in the mood and not out of it.  That said, I am slow to move toward intimacy.  I have to really be sure, and be responsible about it, birth control, etc. I haven't gotten snipped yet because I'm not sure that I wouldn't want to try and start a family again.  I know it's reversible, but I'd rather wait and know if I'm finished or not.  If and when we both want to sleep with each other, we should be certain about it.  As a Vol, I'm much more like a woman regarding sex.  I enjoy the physical part only if there is a deep emotional connection. If I have that, I want sex all of the time, health permitting.  I have a very strong and healthy sex drive. However, if we're not ready or the connection isn't there, I have no interest or desire for sex.  Don't worry.  I make up for that apathy when I'm into it :-).  But if you don't have a similar drive, that will be a problem.

Finally, because this is going on too long, it will be AWESOME.  Physical fitness is important to me and taking care of my partner emotionally and physically is a top priority.  I am very comfortable with my sexuality as long as it isn't harmful or disrespectful to my partner.  I can confidently say that my partner will never have been more satisfied and I know I am making a bold statement.  Test me! :-)

All this said, I prefer the slow approach.  If one is going to be responsible and really find a new level of intimacy, one has to approach it the right way.  There's plenty of time for all of that, no need to rush.  But if and when we get there, WATCH OUT! 

I'm hoping we're both disease free but in this world you have to be extra careful.  If I've upset or offended you I apologize.  I don't mean to be an insensitive jerk.

With all sincerity,

(the Vol)

Where to start with what’s wrong with sending an email like this to someone you have never met…first, (pardon me for assuming his writing style of numbering points), it might land in the hands of a blogger.  Second, he should use spell-check and know how to spell vole, before classifying himself as one.  This would be a particularly effective use of his time if he intends to use this as a form email and send it to other prospective dates who may appreciate proper grammar.  Third, an email like this will never in a million years result in a date, so if you’re looking for opposite-sex repellant, this is it.  Rats versus Voles.  Really?  Did this man admittedly liken his gender to rats and voles?  Rat, vole, squirrel, chipmunk --- I don’t date any kind of rodent.  I’m particularly fond of how he assumes that when we have sex - way, way, way down the long boring road of talking about it to death - we will be having unprotected sex, given he addresses blood tests, birth control and the fact that he has no intentions of getting snipped (rather irrelevant if condoms are in play).  I am not talking the technicalities of sex with anyone ad nauseum.  If he doesn’t know what a woman wants at his age (hint: not an email like this), then no amount of talking is going to remedy the situation.  WATCH OUT, ladies!  Mr. Vol is AWESOME in bed.  He is physically fit.  Translation: he's gonna bang you senseless for hours. Oh, yay!  We all love that so much.  Funny how he doesn’t mean to be an insensitive jerk, and yet…this guy is a RAT, if I ever saw one.

Drugs, Alcohol and Porn Stars, Oh My...

With all this talk about Charlie Sheen suing porn star Capri Anderson for extortion, and Capri Anderson suing Charlie Sheen for battery, assault, and false imprisonment, it makes one reflect upon Oscar Wilde's statement that “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.”  

photo: Angela George for Sharon Graphics © 2009 www.sharongraphics.comThe fact is, Charlie Sheen is a hell of a lot like Charlie Harper, the character he portrays on the CBS show Two and a Half Men.  Which came first, the chicken or the egg…or, should we say, the sitcom star or the porn star? Sheen’s on-screen personal Charlie Harper is always engaging in drunk and disorderly conduct and dating hookers. Sounds an awful lot like what happened recently at the Plaza Hotel. Quick fact: Charlie Sheen’s second wife, Denise Richards, is widely rumored to be an alleged one-time employee of Heidi Fleiss.  Sure, Ms. Anderson claims to be a porn star, not a hooker. But, evidently porn stars do porn in order to market themselves as hookers – it’s called the Porn Star Experience (PSE). And how does one explain her $12,000 fee to hang with Sheen (who was found naked when policed arrived) in his hotel room? Honestly, where does one draw the line in defining ‘sex for money?’  Isn’t that what marriage is all about?  Well, at least that’s what most women lead men to believe until the contract is signed.  Then it becomes ‘no sex for money.’ What’s fascinating is that Charlie Sheen is idolized for being a womanizer both in Life and in Art, if you can call a sitcom art.  I love Two and a Half Men, but tragically Charlie Sheen is only half a man.  The behavior of both the real Charlie and fictional Charlie exemplifies what's wrong with the male psyche in today's society.  Amazing that one of the top sitcoms of this era, which is somewhat of a family show, promotes the chauvinistic, egocentric, asshole mentality of the typical Los Angeles male.  No wonder dating in L.A. sucks the big one - and I’m not talking about the glass dildo Capri Anderson is posing naked with at http://caprianderson.pornblogspace.com/ (caution: click on link at your own risk!).

Hands Up, Baby, Hands up…

Gimme your heart, gimme, gimme...(sound of record scratching). Here’s a fun fact for you: straight men have an unwritten rule that raising ones hands about ones shoulders is only permissible when shooting hoops or high-fiving someone on your team for scoring a point in any number of manly sports. However, dancing Club Med style or posing for a photograph with arms raised high is simply not appropriate hetero-male behavior.

Evidently, the man who sent me these photos either never got the memo on ‘hands up’ etiquette or seriously needs to reevaluate his sexuality. His image has been blacked out to spare him any more humiliation than he has already imposed upon himself by the taking and sharing of these photos. What are those poses, anyway? Showgirl 1 and Showgirl 3 from some topless dancing how-to manual in Las Vegas for Dummies? I’m particularly fond of the humming bird that has been photoshopped into the second shot. Everything about this man screams gay, from the spelling of his name to his shaved armpits – yes, shaved…unless he has some rare dermatological condition that renders his chest hairy but his underarms bald. This man believed we were soulmates because we both have cats. His are Siamese, which he spelled siamies – already a reason not to date him. I replied by politely saying I wasn’t feeling any chemistry, to which he responded as follows:

Someone like you, looking for someone with not only external, but internal depth and soul, should know that chemistry is not "felt" with just a picture. I bet you bucks that once you see me, you will melt. But, maybe you prefer to keep looking and looking, confused by all the choices, and, in the end, end up having looked forever and missing the right man. RECONSIDER and you will NOT BE SORRY.

Love love love,

(a very feminine name)

That sounds a little threatening to me…RECONSIDER and I will NOT BE SORRY. Does that mean if I don’t reconsider, I will be sorry? Should I be hiring a bodyguard? This hairy (except for the pits) Club Med enthusiast does look a little like a terrorist, but he also bears resemblance to PeeWee Herman – no offense to Paul Reubens, who is a fabulous actor. I particularly enjoyed his portrayal of Derek Foreal in the movie Blow. I’ll tell you one thing, it’ll be a warm day on the figure-skating rink before I go anywhere near this guy’s playhouse.

Shortly after receiving his first email, he sent me another:

Fate may have some things in store for us, through thick and thin, sky blue or black... but, some of it is up to us. Not all, I agree, but some. Simply walking away from what could be good is not who you are. You, I’M SURE, are not looking for serial dating. So here's a poem from me to you...And with that, ball's in your court.

Searching the heavens for you,

my one star

that shines in the darkest of the nights

with your blue radiating light

granting me an unflinching peace

and in return

receiving a reflection far brighter

and my adoring gaze upon your very soul

Yeesh! I can tell you one place, the balls aren’t. Poetry may be a lot of things, but it is not masculine and unless it’s a dirty limerick, it’s not likely to warm my heart. I’m sure some women disagree with my opinion and find poetry romantic.  God bless you if you’re into that kind of crap, but I think you’ll agree that poetry preempting a first date is a little creepy. This guy ain’t no Cyrano and there will be no e.e. cummings in his future. Forget the hands up, baby and man up, baby, man up! For the record, I have nothing against gay men, except when they think they are straight and try to hit on me.

Gentlemen, sometimes you just have to take “no” for an answer, so as not to humiliate yourself and end up the subject of one of my blogs.