Sof's Guide to Spotting and Ruining the Attention Whore

They're everywhere: Crying in bars... making a scene in the workplace... getting knocked up by male friends when clearly out of the closet as a lesbian. They'll announce their pregnancy when you announce your engagement; they'll be the surprise at your surprise party; Hell, they'll even die before you (and with a better funeral, of course).

This is why I'm going to help you spot and destroy the attention whore before her wildly obscene beer tears drown your boyfriend into a public affair. To help me in this task, I've employed the women of Seattle Grace Hospital. I give you exhibit A:

Name: Dr. Calliope "Callie" Torres

Occupation: Attending Orthopedic Surgeon

Relationship Status: It's complicated

Sexual Orientation: Gay of the lesbian variety (or so she says)

Why Callie is an Attention Whore: Recently, Callie announced her pregnancy to her "ex" girlfriend, Arizona. While this is typically news people would be "over the moon about" (ugh, I hate that expression), knowing that the love child is the product of an extra-relational tryst with her sex buddy of yesteryear must have had Arizona barbecuing from the inside out. It's quite clear that Steamy has put a dark cloud over Callie and Arizona's relationship; primarily because, well, Callie wants to bone his brains out 24/7. If we can all take a look back to the days of Dr. Erica Hahn (yes I know that's painful), we'd all recall that the first tounge slip to the other side was result of Steamy's fantastical urging. Pretending to be a lesbian to get a hot guys attention? Classic attention whore. On to exhibit B...

Name: Dr. Teddy Altman

Occupation: Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery

Relationship Status: Married... technically

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Why Teddy is an Attention Whore: It's clear to everyone in America that Dr. Teddy (yeah... that name would make me comfortable if saw it assigned to my heart surgery) has daily desert fantasies of her and Dr. Hunt saving lives and rolling around in sand together. Sure must have sucked for her when Hunt got MARRIED. Boo hoo... What ever is an attention whore to do?! I know... also GET MARRIED. But, in true AW form, our friend Teddy didn't only get hitched... she married a patient she met for 5 minutes. Moving on...

Name: Dr. Christina Yang

Occupation: Medical Resident

Relationship Status: Married

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Why Christina is an Attention Whore: This whole "I'm ok... I'm NOT ok... I'm ok... I'm NOT ok" game is getting old. Funny how Christina can miraculously kick surgery ass in the OR again RIGHT in time for the race for Chief Resident. All too convenient for me. She wanted to come back in the spotlight tenfold... riding up in an ambulance, saving the life of a mass murderer. Yeah... THAT's not dramatic. She's an attention whore with a motive (beware of those, for sure).

Now that we've learned to recognize the attention whores, we need to learn how to tame them. What better way than to learn from the example set by television's most drastically reformed Attention Whore, Meredith Grey:

In just a few short seasons, Meredith went from sleeping with her BFF and fake-dying to getting married on a post-it. Now that's growth. Instead of being the subject of everyone's concern, she's the one offering up advice and telling young AWs to snap out of it. What's the lesson here? Marry a sexy, powerful doctor, dodge a bullet, and concentrate on what really matters in life. Here here, Meredith!

"I Will Attack You Like A F#*$&N Squirrel Monkey"

I can always count on my girl Snooki to broaden the limits of my knowledge base. Even on the very first episode of the JS's 3rd season (the highest rated show ever accoding to the FB status of Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino. Don't judge me), Snooks taught me that looking like a hooker is awesome, you never grow out of stuffed animals, and most importantly, that squirrel monkeys are a ferocious band of beasts that should never be messed with no matter what their size might be.

This prompted me, as always, to learn more about this scrappy, Napoleon-esque creature. Please allow me to share:

Squirrel Monkey, from the Latin: Saimiri Gorilla Juiceheadeum, is native to the shore areas of central Jersey, seasonally thriving in the area known as Seaside (but if you were to ask Sammmi she'd just say "Ugh. (Pause. Eye Roll.) Jersaay").

The female squirrel monkey is the most interesting of the species. She requires an excess of Vitamin D to be accepted by the squirrel monkey community. She feeds upon cherry vodka, pickles, and whatever Gorilla juice-head sauseeege she can get her hands on. Otherwise mistaken for a "meatball," a female squirrel monkey cannot go two months without having sex or she will involuntarily show her cooch to the first male she sees.

The male squirrel monkey is also very sexual and is often forced to "stick it in one of the jetholes." Perferred mating ritual of the male squirrel monkey is to prepare with GTL (a practice similar to peacocking) and seek out non-grenades to intoxicate and bring back to the mating nest, otherwise known as the hottub. The male squirrel monkey's diet consists of burgers for the boys, protein shakes, and lady squirrel monkey.

The squirrel monkey, while often large, is not the most intellegent of primates. Shunned by most other species, the squirrel monkies band together to "beat the beat," a ritual believed to repel the more intellegent animalia.

Well... I hope this was as intellectually stimulating for you as it was for me. Until next time...

The Only Sexy Ginger I Know

Ladies, hide your fair featured friends. Everyone's going to want a piece of the Coco tonight and the last thing we need is another Ginger. But with that said, pumpkins are in season and I've made it my mission to embrace all things orange (that means you, Coco-bear). Who's excited!?!?!

Don't Do Drugs... Watch Rocky Horror

I have a confession...

...It's not that I once peed on Lindsay Lohan's house (I'm not ready to confess that yet).

...Nor is it that I ever pooped my pants (Though, I can confess that my best friends are capable of such accomplishments).

...It's not even that I once told a doctor that my 8-year-old sister had a scorching case of herpes (Haha--that was a good one).

My confession is that before Sunday, I had absolutely no freaking clue what the hell Rocky Horror Picture Show was. I know what you're thinking: Me? The incredibly well versed entertainment enthusiast that I am was ignorant to the most notorious cult classic film in the history of American cinema?! Well I have news for you... NO ONE knows what Rocky Horror is about. Anyone who ever tried to understand the meaning of it was probably too high on their acid trip to create any semblance of thought. Even the weirdos who show up to revival theaters in full costumes with rice and water guns (cough... mom... cough) have no know idea what it's about.

After Jean Machine and I watched it about 85x on repeat this past weekend, I've been able to scrap together the following synopsis (to preface what you're about to read, no, I'm not on crack):

A newly engaged couple stumbles upon the castle/laboratory of Dr. Frankenfurter, a cross-dressing alien scientist from the planet Transexual of the Transylvania galaxy. They witness the unveiling of Frankenfurter's experiment, a sexy piece of man candy he creates using half of a delivery boy's brain. Frankenfurter murders the delivery boy (who miraculously is able to survive with half of a brain) with an ice pick. Then the whole gang, including a zombie handyman, a maid with a frizz problem, and a groupie in serious need of an eyebrow consultation, all has sex with each other and dance around in drag before the traitor aliens zap Frankenfurter with an anti-matter ray and he dies. Then the house blasts back to Transexual, Transylvania so they can do the time warp again. The End.

And people say our generation is fucked... HA.

Moving on, I now feel comfortable reporting on last week's Rocky Horror Glee Show. And what did I think? Bravo, Gleeks, Bravo!

Though Mercedes didn't have to flip the tip in her portrayal of Frankenfurter, the casting seemed to be spot on. Finn and his dumpy abs as Brad? Check. Sam and his chiseled-by-angels abs as Rocky? Check. Artie as Dr. Scott? Umm... duh. Yeah, yeah, all very exciting.

BUT if I'm going to be honest here, nothing thrilled me more than the performance we've all been waiting for... The Glee musical debut of Uncle Jesse. Did you hear me... I said UNCLE JESSE KATSOPOLIS). I knew the Rippers were gonna make a comeback one day. Someone is going to have to institutionalize me if he ever sings "Forever" with New Directions. Hmm... who's got Ryan Murphy's number? I have a proposition for him.

Chuck Me

Last night someone hit a home run...

No, I'm not talking about that dumbass baseball game that no one in America watched (Remind me why FOX didn't pull a Tonya Harding on Lumberjack Wilson's ass again? I'm sure they were less than thrilled about the world's most boring championship matchup). I'm actually referring to the queen of real diamonds and balls herself, Miss Blair Waldorf. On last night's episode, Blair rung in the big 2-0 with a big o-face (and I assure you she wasn't the only one enjoying her lady tickles).

Late night, piano top, hate chucking? Yes... If you haven't seen last night's ending scene of GG, you're probably missing out on the best sexytime that wasn't yours. How do I know, you ask? Try living in a one-bathroom apartment with three girls who miraculously all have to pee at the same time.

Alas, after the scenario-ing subsided I started to think: "Hmm... Is it reasonable to believe that anyone would engage in wild hate sex on a piano top in an NYC apartment that housed her mother, her maid, and her bff?" Let's count all the rediculous points in that sentence, shall we?

Point #1: Hate Sex
While we can all admit that foreplay beginning with the words "every nerve ending in my body is electrified with hatred" can be a turn on for some freaky deakies (guilty), what ever happened to good old "I love you?" You can bet your ass that if someone tried to woo me with "my body is about to explode with hatred," he'd be Lorena Bobbitted before you could even say Dorota.

Point #2: Piano Sex
Unless your the guest of Edward Lewis at the Beverly Wilshire, you have no business mounting any piano tops where others are trying to sleep. You want to play chopsticks with his chopstick? Do it on your own time, Beethoven.

Point #3: NYC Apartment
Sure the Waldorfs are an exception to the rule, but on the teeny island of Manhattan there's no chance you host the square footage that would prevent piano-sex pleasure moans from reaching your precious ears. Remember that when you opt for saxaphone sex, Blaire.

Point #4: Mom, Maid and BFF:
The last people you want privy to your sexual symphany is the woman who birthed you, the woman who's supposed to clean up after you, and the one who's going to have to end up hearing all about it the next day anyway.

So with that said, I'm gonna go watch it on repeat with a martini, a cigarette, and the AC on high.

Dear God, You're a Yankee Fan, Right?

Dear God,

You're a Yankee fan, aren't you? I mean 27 world series championships? It sure seems that way. Also, I noticed that when the bombers knocked out two homers in a row on Wednesday, the sky turned the most beautiful color (that was a nice touch).

I ask because I'm really praying for a win tonight. See (and of course you already know this), I'm on my way to Philadelphia where the fans are so abnoxious they probably make the Samaritans seem like lovely dinner guests (sorry... I know we're all your creatures, but I really don't know what went wrong with those guys). And God, if the Yanks win, I'll have a far better chance of tolerating the verbal diarrhea spewing out of their mouths this weekend (sorry again... I probably shouldn't say diarrhea mid-prayer).

Oh hey, God? I have another question. I get the ant eater, the blowfish, even the alpaca, but where the heck (notice how I didn't say "hell" there?) did the Phanatic come from? Lemme tell ya, if that's not demonic symbolism, I don't know what is. See, the Yanks don't have a "mascot"... That title is all yours (I'll even put in a word with Hal if you'd like to make it a little more official).

So God, I come to you tonight asking for a win. In return, I promise to spearhead an effort to teach the American people those words that no one knows in the beginning of "God Bless America." Why does the school system have to cheat you of your song, God? I sure was never taught those words growing up (my roommate even thought they were fake). Think about it ;)

I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the game now. You must have some kick-ass flat screens up there. Let's go Yankees!

Amen.

Savory Jackson Avery

Dear Readers,

I'm not going to lie to you... I'm drunk, pretty drunk. At least not drunk to the point where I'm mispelling words but I cannot attest for the latter half of my post. I'm bolting (yet again) but I've met a lovely man who shares my love for Project Runway and Hello Kitty so at least my ride to Philadelphia won't be so bad. However, when I told him I'm behind on my PR because I've been too busy catching up on my Greys he slapped my face and called me Barbara.

Luckily I had the intuition to immediately soften the blow with a picture of Jackson Avery (thank you, Bolt Bus, for your streaming internet). I took a page from my friend Ali's book and told him that Avery's eyes pierce my soul. For a hot second he thought I was trying to get him to join a cult but then he got a glimpse of Avery's bam bams and completely understood my hot flash.

Which brings me to my point: I'd like to open up a genetic factory where I can inter-breed humans to make specimens equal to or surpassing Avery ( $10 bucks says he was grown on a people farm). What does this mean in the long run? I dunno... Looking for a blue-eyed black man? I'm your girl. A Blasian? Again, give me a ring. An Italian/Irish/German bride? Sorry... We can't mimmic perfection here (but I'm still your girl ;) ).

So now I'm realizing the unfortunate affects of my own genetics. I fear that my GERD is offending my new friend. I keep trying to flirt my way back in the game, but just like Dr. Hot-for-Hunt won't stand for it, I don't think my new friend will either (granted my new friend is gay enough to share with me the street music to his Buddy Holly audition--but HEY). In the mean time, I'll keep trying to blow my Pinot Grigiburbs into the vent. Until then, tah tah.