lisa alden's blog

We’re not sure who he was up against, or how the votes were tallied, but Stacy Kiebler made it official last night when she got a jump on the awards season by announcing…

“I have the best date in the whole world,” Keibler, 32, told PEOPLE Tuesday at New York’s Cipriani 42nd Street, where boyfriend George Clooney nabbed the best-actor award from the National Board of Review for his role inThe Descendants. 

Not that we’re surprised, but is it possible he keeps winning over the ladies the same way he won over his dog? 

Kim Kardashian has been through a lot this year, so it’s heartening to hear that she’s taken her pain and come up with a philosophy we can see as a potential line of embroidered (and bedazzled) throw pillows for K-Mart. 

” Remember, people only rain on your parade because they’re jealous of your sun & tired of their shade.” 

In an effort to further solidify his brand as the guy who can do anything, James Franco has cut together some left over footage from his role on “General Hospital” as an avante-guard artist named (wait for it) Franco, into a “humorous psycho-thriller” titled (wait for it) Francophrenia. The film will have its premiere at this year’s Rotterdam Film Festival.  On the heels of his recent sale to Amazon for his first novel , we think Franco should announce that there’s nothing left for him to do in 2012 except run for the Republican nomination for President.

     I pull up to Brentwood School at 3:20, Lil Wayne blasting from the speakers of my slightly beat up black Mercedes. There are only two types of cars crawling slowly up the North Side of Bundy before making a sharp left just before Sunset - crappy cars and fancy cars - because there are only two types of people picking up their kids from this private school. Nannies and mommies. (OK, a few daddies taking a break from writing their screenplays).

     There’s a baby blue placard in my window that lets the teacher at the gate know I’m legit, and she waves me through. About 500 feet ahead, another teacher gets the heads up on my arrival on her walkie talkie and hustles to position the boys to be tossed into the backseat the moment I hit my mark. The door opens and as Jackson falls into his seat, he whines,  ”Aw man, it smells like dog back here.”  An Asian man with a friendly smile throws Jackson’s larger-than-my-dog knapsack in his lap and winks at me as he slams the door.  ”Be nice, kid. That could be your car someday.” In the nano-second I spend thinking why this guy would think I’d ever give Jackson my car, a Lululemon mom clearly at risk of being late for her 4:00 yoga class throws her entire body against the horn of her Range Rover, and every teacher on pick-up duty begins to flail their arms as if they’ve just detected a ticking bomb in my trunk. I’m holding up the line and that’s some serious shit around here. 

     As I gun my Mercedes to make the light, Jackson’s younger brother Cooper explodes with laughter. “Mr. Hagachi thought Lisa was our mom!” Really? Because I’m not the mom. I’m the mom’s best friend. And I’m also the nanny. And because setting Mr. Higachi straight would have required going back to that Circle of Hell, I let it slide. But I have to admit, I didn’t mind being seen as a mom. Not their mom, just a mom in general. It was kind of cool. And totally weird. 

NEXT… PART TWO: “Mary Poppins goes to the movies.” or… “How I learned not to leave two kids alone in a movie theater even when their little sister pees in your lap.” 

getstooobsessed:

“Mommy, they are just like me.” 

My oldest son is six years old and in love for the first time.  He is in love with Blaine from Glee. 

For those who don’t know Blaine is a boy…a gay boy, the boyfriend of one of the main characters, Kurt.

This isn’t a ‘he thinks Blaine is really cool’ kind of love.  It is a mooning at a picture of Blaine’s face for a half hour followed by a wistful “He’s so pretty” kind of love.

He loves the episode where two boys kiss.  My son will call people in from other parts of the house to make sure they don’t miss his ‘favorite part.’  He’s been known to rewind it and watch it over again…and force other to, as well, if he doesn’t think people have been paying enough attention.

This infatuation doesn’t bother me or his father.  We live in a very hip-liberal neighborhood, many of our friends are gay, and idea of having a gay son isn’t something that bothers either of us.  Our son is going to be who he is, and it is our job to love him.  End of story.

He is also six.  Six year olds get obsessed with all kinds of things.  This might not mean anything at all.  We always joke that he’s either gay, or we have the best blackmail material in the history of mankind when he’s a 16 year old straight boy. (Take that naked bath time pictures!)

Then the other day we were traveling across the state listening to the Warblers album (of course), and in the middle of Candles, my son pipes up from the back seat.

“Mommy, Kurt and Blaine are boyfriends.”

“Yes, they are,” I affirm.

“They don’t like kissing girls.  They just kiss boys.”

“That’s true.”

“Mommy, they are just like me.”

“That’s great, baby.  You know I love you no matter what?”

“I know…” I could hear him rolling his eyes at me.

When we got home I recapped this conversation to his Dad, and we stood simply looking into each other’s eyes for a moment.  Then we smiled.

“So if at 16 he wants to make a big announcement at the dinner table, we can say ‘You told us when you were six.  Pass the carrots’ and he’ll be disappointed we stole his big dramatic moment,” my husband says with a laugh and hugs me.

Only time will tell if my son is gay, but if he is I am glad he’s mine.  I am glad he has been born into our family.  A family full of people who will love and accept him.  People who will never want him to change.  With parents who will look forward to dancing at his wedding.

And I have to admit, Blaine would be a really cute son-in-law.

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Low end, dark red booths.  Early bar crowd of alcoholics. GARY and SHEILA, two very normal looking people, sit. 

GARY

Marcia says you work with children?

SHEILA

Handicapped orphans.  I don’t get paid, so technically it’s just volunteer work. Luckily I’m very rich.  

GARY

So you don’t want a career?   

SHEILA

Oh I do!  As the CEO of my family.  Someday.  There is nothing more important than making my husband feel like he’s the center of the universe. 24/7. 

GARY

How come such a great girl needs to go on blind dates?

SHEILA 

I like to stay busy.  I’m also taking a cooking class and I watch a lot of porno so I can stay up on the latest trends. 

GARY

I think I’m in love! 

SHEILA

Being divorced is no reason to give up on life. 

GARY 

Wait. Marcia didn’t say you were divorced.

SHEILA

Is that a problem?

GARY

No. Well. Yes. Maybe.  Marcia didn’t tell you?  Last year, I was married. For a day.  On the way to the airport, she told me she wasn’t over her ex and she owed it to herself to use our honeymoon to see if she could win him back. 

SHEILA

You poor thing!

GARY

I couldn’t even talk to a woman for a year.  I was in therapy 3 times a week.  I still cry every time I watch “American Idol”. That was our favorite show.

SHEILA

She really hurt you, didn’t she?

She pats the seat for him to come closer, and scratches the inside of his arm.

GARY 

That feels good…

(beat)

So you’re definitely over your ex? I’m sorry, I just have to ask.

SHEILA

You mean the skanky hairy-ball douchebag?

Gary braces from the shock of the dirty mouth out of this lovely girl.

SHEILA (CONT’D)

Excuse my language but it’s very therapeutic.  Tell me what you really think about that bitch who dumped you for her old man. Go on…

GARY

She was a whore?

SHEILA

You can do better than that.

GARY

A lying cunt-faced whore?

SHEILA

Doesn’t that feel better?

GARY

Yes it does! It really, really does! 

Sheila’s face suddenly goes white.

GARY (CONT’D)

What’s the matter?

SHEILA

He’s here.

GARY

Who? 

SHEILA

(whispering)

Skanky hairy-ball douchebag.  Just be cool, ok?

ALAN, dressed in a pale blue pantsuit with a holster around his waist, approaches their booth. 

ALAN

Hello Sheila.  

SHEILA

Hello Alan. I see you brought Serpico out tonight.

He pats the holster and looks to Gary.

ALAN

Don’t worry, it’s registered. I’m a weekend sheriff in Palmdale. 

(to Sheila)

Funny seeing you on this side of town.

SHEILA

It was my boyfriend Gary’s idea.

GARY

I wanted to go to the Palm? In Vegas? 

She kisses Gary on the mouth to get him to shut up and turns to Alan. 

SHEILA

Drinking alone again tonight?

ALAN 

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m waiting for a friend.  A female model friend. Under 30. 

He makes a gesture that she’s got big tits. 

SHEILA

I guess the crabs cleared up?

Alan holds out his hand to shake with Gary. 

GARY

Slippery.

ALAN

That’s Drakar my brother. The ladies love it. I got a bottle in the glove compartment?  

GARY

I’m good. 

ALAN 

Whatever. Here’s another tip.  

(re: Sheila)

If you decide you wanna trap the beaver tonight, just reach under the table and…

He leans into Gary’s ear and whispers something. Wriggles the fingers of his right hand.  Gary’s eyes go wide.

ALAN (CONT’D)

She’ll be wetter than a slip n slide so you might wanna put a towel underneath her for the ride back to your place. 

Alan walks to the bar where his date waits for him. 

GARY

What a jerk! How did you ever stay married to that guy?

SHEILA

I feel sorry for him. Does she look like a model to you? Model train wreck maybe. 

(rising)

Order me another drink? I have to go to the ladies room.

Sheila leaves. 

From the bar, Alan gives Gary a “fuck you” sign.  Alan’s phone rings and he abruptly leaves his date and goes to the ladies room.  Gary waits. And waits. Then Sheila returns. Her lipstick obviously smudged. 

GARY

I think your lipstick’s…

SHEILA

Really? That’s odd…

Alan walks past their booth with his date. He looks at Gary as he zips up his pants. 

GARY

Did something just happen with you two?

SHEILA

What exactly are you insinuating Gary?  That I was in the ladies room giving my ex husband a blow job? You are really paranoid. Maybe you’re not ready to date. Maybe you don’t have the kind of closure with your ex like I do.

GARY

My therapist and I did a lot of role playing! 

Suddenly, Alan pops his head over from the next booth. 

ALAN

What a pussy! You eat pussy, you big pussy?  Meowwww!!!

Sheila laughs. 

ALAN (CONT’D)

She’s talking about breakup sex. It’s a known fact that you cannot get over your ex without fucking the shit out of her.

SHEILA

Google it. 

ALAN

By the way, do you mind if I change our session this week? I’m getting my balls licked in Koreatown on Wednesday.

SHEILA

Sure.

GARY

You two still go to therapy?

SHEILA

It’s only been five years. 

ALAN

I think what he means is are we still having break up sex?

GARY

Ok, let’s go with that. 

SHEILA

I have to go to the bathroom again. Real bad… Alan?

GARY

I thought you said you were over him?!!

SHEILA

98 percent.

ALAN

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Gary gets up to go.

SHEILA

Don’t go! Please! I’m sorry… Let’s start over. Alan - take your slut date back to the whorehouse in tranny town and do her there.

From the booth next to theirs…

DATE

I heard that bitch! 

ALAN

We’re not going anywhere! You’re the one who’s breaking the restraining order.  Again. 

SHEILA 

Thanks a lot Alan! It’s not enough you took the best years of my life?  This guy could be my last chance!

Alan sits and puts his arm around Sheila, softens.

ALAN

I told you I’d take you back, angel ass cheeks.

SHEILA

When did you say that King Kock?

ALAN

Sunday night. After Desperate Housewives.  Right before you came. You didn’t hear me? She’s a screamer. 

Sheila nods to Alan and leans into him for a snuggle. 

GARY

That’s it!  I’m getting out of here. I’d rather burn through my entire box set of “American Idol” DVDs than spend one more minute with you two.

Gary storms off.  Sheila takes a forkful of pasta and feeds it to Alan.

SHEILA

That guy is so not ready to date yet.  

The only thing harder than being single in LA is being a single writer.  I pretty much stop mixing it up with people after my Bootcamp class at 8:AM, which is why about a year ago, I took a cue from all those boys who create “fantasy” football teams every fall and created my own “Fantasy Husband League.”  The “FHL” is a team of top-notch men who would make great husbands.  They are athletes in their own right, men who can go the distance  year after year, never losing their charm or their appreciation of mine.  My Fantasy League is a little different from the one the boys play with each other.    I don’t play against anybody else. Not because I’m not competitive, but because I am. Why would I share my picks with anybody else?  I don’t know much about football, but I know there are a lot more giant guys who want to kick a ball around for a living than there are genuine Fantasy Husbands.  Which is why - if you are interested in starting your own FHL - you need fictional men and celebrities.  For example - and these two are taken…. Coach Taylor from “Friday Night Lights” and say… Tom Hanks.  Again, both taken.    BTW-  I sat next to Tom Hanks at a restaurant once and it’s really obvious that he’s never leaving his wife, in case you thought it was just hype cooked up by their publicists. But still, it’s good to know he’s there.  He keeps George Clooney in line when he won’t come home from Italy.   But none of these guys are in the League because I have any (serious) fantasy that they will one day be my husband.  I have a League for the same reason I have a Herve Leger dress.  I like knowing it’s there. No matter how many sweatpant days I have, I look in my closet and see the possibility of a life that requires Herve Leger.  And that keeps me going.

Recently, I came across an interesting candidate and without telling him (that would be weird) made him my official first non-celebrity, non fictional character.   You know, a Real Guy.  What a disaster.    I’m thinking of sending him over to Bristol Palin, maybe she can use him.  I guess it was bound to happen - the NFL is always kicking players out for hooligan type behavior.   The thing is real guys are capable of interacting with you, which basically makes it impossible for them to maintain their credibility as FHL team members. I always knew that was a calculated risk.  But this guy didn’t even get suited up for the kickoff before I had to… kick him off.   The worst part is my team is suffering. Their morale has never been lower.   The Real Guy was a high profile pick, and Fantasy Husbands have a pretty healthy ego and don’t like sharing the spotlight.    Coach Taylor will figure out something to get them motivated again, but in the meantime  I’ve got the Italian bartender’s application on hold, the one who always remembers what wine I like and bears a striking resemblance to FHL member Javier Bardem. I’m just not sure real guys are Fantasy material. 

This whole thing is my mother’s fault.  Not since the 8th grade when the braces she made me get tore apart the inside of David Weir’s mouth and he broke up with me have I been so thoroughly convinced of her culpability.   Since then, one of the things I was most looking forward to about growing up was being able to look her square in the eye and say, “You’re not the boss of me.”  And mean it.  Especially when it came to any attempts to set me up with a guy.   So a few years ago when I was in San Diego for the weekend and my mother arranged a dinner with - let’s call him Alvy Singer - and his wife I didn’t think there any pressure because Alvy was married.  He was just a guy who hired my mom to decorate his house. But when my step-father pulled up to the restaurant and my mother flipped open the makeup mirror above her, I suddenly had a very good reason to panic.  Why was she putting on the red Chanellipstick you can only get in France? (If you didn’t know, it’s because in America we have laws against toxic lead poisoning).  The Chanel  lipstick that is supposed to last the rest of her life or until she goes to Paris again, whichever comes first?   I looked to my step-father for a clue but he just sighed.

Was this Alvy guy  in my mother’s Fantasy Husband League?   Considering at the time the FHL was just one of many brilliant ideas floating around in my brain I hadn’t had time to really focus on, it was impossible that she could have her own FHL team in the works.   “You know you can’t actually set me up with a married guy, right?”   I was flailing and all she could do was smile.  ”Just pay attention tonight, dear.  You might learn something.”  Learn what?  Was I supposed to take notes of his outstanding husband-like qualities and bring it to the UCLA Husband Lab so they could make me one of my own?  My step-father held open the door to the restaurant and looked at my mother.   “You have lipstick on your teeth.”  It was the last thing he would say the entire evening.

Watching my mother with Alvy was like watching Katie Couric  interviewing Bill Clinton. Twenty years and two networks later Katie’s heard the “Town called Hope” story  a million times but there’s still a twinkle in her eyes like Bill just said her name for the first time.    And I admit as far as stories involving real people go, Alvy’s was a pretty good one.  It had all the requisite elements - rags to riches, immigrant family coming to America with nothing but shoe string in their pockets, a stint in the Israeli Army.   You know, the usual.  Every once in a while I’d look over at Alvy’s wife and she had that sparkly cute “Yep, I’m married to this guy.  How great is that!” look in her eyes.  And then I’d look at my step-father intently slicing his steak into tiny tiny pieces.  Lucky for him I was the only one who saw the cartoon bubble over his head.   ” How many times can this guy work Mossad into a story?   Big deal.   I’m British.  Never heard anybody say ‘The sun never sets on the Israeli empire!”  Plus I’m British.”   Poor step-father.  If only he’d known my mom  in 1977 like I did, he’d know that he didn’t have anything to worry about.  Mossad Alvy was simply pushing my mother’s “Annie Hall” buttons. And as you can imagine, that doesn’t happen every day in San Diego.

Not that Alvy was exactly Woody Allen.  Woody Allen meets Stallone.  Or James Bond maybe.   Trust me it’s got sex appeal.   And on top of that Woody’s wife was such a Mia Farrow I was surprised to hear they made their babies themselves.  On the way home from the restaurant nobody said a word.  My mother was trying to remember where she put her button down vest and tie, my step-father was cherry picking WWII stories to embellish and casually retell as soon as possible, and I was enjoying the analysis I’d come up with and hadn’t decided to share with anybody yet.   My mother didn’t want me to meet Alvy to teach me anything about what a “real husband” my age could look like, or even offer me hope that one did exist.    Being around Alvy was about  reminding both of us of the 1977-recently divorced-dancing on the tables-single shiksa Mom.      And now that we’d taken that trip down Woody lane I was free to go back to LA and continue to fuck up my love life all by myself.  And I did. For a few years.Then one morning about a year ago an email lands in my in box.  Subject heading: “Alvy.”   From: “Mom.”  Message:  ”Alvy Singer  is  DIVORCED.”  I email back:  ”Sorry to hear that.”  But her email comes back faster than the internet technically works.   “YOU SHOULD CALL HIM.”    Alright, now everything’s in caps.  Can somebody please bring in the guy who decodes the Mother sub-text?  Did you hear what I said?  The greatest husband you will ever meet is available! I must have clicked over to  Deadline Hollywood,  because a few minutes went by and then another email arrived.  ”HE ALWAYS ASKS ABOUT YOU.”   Oh boy.  Now  I’m not sure why I don’t want to be set up by my mother.  A stubborn need to be the boss of myself?  The fact that while there are infinite urban myths of people marrying from internet dating I have never heard one  involving a mother? (and I read every wedding story in the Sunday NY Times).  All I know is right now I want to end this email and my best strategy is confusion.    ”Sorry to hear that” I reply.   And she’s gone.

And then I sit there thinking to myself, wondering if there’s a move to be made here.  After all,  the FHL is no longer just a dream.  It actually exists.  Maybe it’s my job to go scout this guy.    If you work for the Dallas Cowboys and you hear about a kid who can throw 100 yards in the middle of a snowstorm blindfolded, don’t you have to drive to Minnesota and see for yourself?   I’ve never scouted a Real Guy for the FHL (as you know from Part One) but I’ve seen “Jerry Maguire” enough times to know how totally out of control Cush and his dad got once they knew Jerry was coming to Texas.  So I lie in the text I send to Alvy.   Something about how interested I am in the real estate business and it would be such a favor if  he’s ever in LA and we could grab a drink.    Turns out he’s coming to LA for business in a few days.  Perfect!  Now let’s see if this kid’s got game.

A (BLANK) is to a writer as a sex-tape is to Kim Kardashian.

Wait for it, wait for it… here it is…  A BLOG is to a writer as a sex-tape is to Kim Kardashian.

Have you lost your mind, Lisa Alden?   How the hell is having a blog just like having a sex tape?    Unless it’s a sex blog.   But your blog has Getty Images of President Clinton and Woody Allen.  With their clothes on.  That’s a pretty boring sex tape. Although they both probably do have sex tapes, come to think of it.

But here’s what I mean.   Both a blog and a sex tape allow a writer (like       Aaron Sorkin, the George Clooney of writers as far as I’m concerned)  or Kimmy K to delude themselves into thinking they are famous simply because they paid 25 dollars for a Dreamhost subscription or flipped the switch on their parents camera. Depending on the degree of delusion on the part of the writer and/or Kim, the imagined fan base could be bigger and more passionate than Obama’s on election day and in reality as small and ambivalently passionate as the President’s fan base is today.

I’m not sure if you can be deluded if you know you are, but in any case I would like to apologize to my fan base for keeping you hanging with the third and final installment of this “Fantasy Husband” epic adventure.   It may not have caused as many sleepless nights as wondering if Bristol Palin will ultimately win the coveted disco ball trophy on DWTS, but the world is a pretty scary place these days (even more so if Bristol wins)  and entertainers (like me and Bristol)  have a responsibility to bring relief and joy and amusement into your recession, global warming, reality TV lives.

I now know that it was irresponsible of me to invite you into my writer’s lair with the promise of a good time only to leave you locked in the bathroom like one of Charlie Sheen’s lady friends.   And I really do want to share with you exactly what  this Fantasy Husband did to malign me in such a way that I went public with his story, without Gloria Allred’s help, but with a comparable righteousness and vitriol.   And it wasn’t laziness, although that would be a perfectly reasonable guess.   It was guilt.

But why, Lisa Alden, would you feel guilty?  We don’t even know what he did but it must have been awful.   JJ Abrams doesn’t write stories with this many twists and turns.  That may be true, but my story will be much easier to understand.

After writing “Part 2,” I got a text from FH.  Which I ignored.  Then I got another one and another one.  Here’s how they went.  ”Hey, how’s it going.”   (time gap while I don’t respond).  ”Haven’t heard from you in a while.”  (Still not moved to respond).  ”I’m sorry if the texts I sent a few weeks ago upset you in any way.”  Ladies and gentlemen, we have an apology.  An apology for graphically sexting me a booty call after we’d only been to dinner once and had a couple of short phone calls.

Here’s the thing about sexting - if we’re being completely honest, it’s a little exciting. And a little flattering.  But in this case, at least initially, it was really upsetting.  FH don’t send dirty text booty calls when you haven’t even made out yet.  That’s what regular guys do and not even that often.   Considering he was my only FH I had a decent shot with (although I am closing in on my degrees of separation to Aaron Sorkin) I suddenly find myself without my most promising player.

The moral of the story is never meet your heroes and never ever ever get sexy booty calls from your Fantasy Husband.   It’s depressing.  I didn’t want to take his jersey back, but I also didn’t want to drag this out like the Brett Favre scandal.  Unlike the NFL, my  justice is meeted out with expedience so we can all just get on with our lives.

I did accept his apology (although texting an apology is a total pussy move) because it did feel genuine.  And with some reflection I came to the same conclusion I come to almost every day of my life.  Guys will be guys. So I wound up feeling a little guilty about the blog.  Or at least a little over-dramatic.   He’s still a  nice guy.   He even read the first two parts of the story and thought it was very funny.  Wait.  Maybe I should start a farm team and watch how he plays, see if he behaves himself.  He certainly does have potential.