Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Can we talk for a moment about how Aaron Spelling must be rolling over in his grave? TORI! Why can’t you STOP THE INSANITY!?!? First the remake of 90210 which I will not lie, I watch. Okay, I TiVo it and watch it at a later date because Patrick refuses to partake. (I think its because his love for the original is so strong and true. Yup.. that’s what it is alright, he’s just a purist.)

And I suppose it’s grown on me enough to stick with it but mainly that is because of Kelly and (ugh) Brenda and now DONNA MARTIN (graduates)! Not to mention the absolute train wreck that Jackie Taylor turned out to be. She should totally sue her plastic surgeon.

(Or maybe Ann Gillespie should sue. Yes. That’s the actress who played Jackie Taylor. And no, I didn’t google her, I just knew that one. Did you know that she is also now a Reverend for some church? And that this ends your random actress lesson for today?)

But a Melrose Place remake? Really? Starring Ashley Simpson? REALLY? Please Tori; tell me you had no part in this. Blame your crazy ass mom who I can only picture as Loni Anderson and not actual Candy Spelling thanks to your HILARIOUS show on VH1 that was too short lived. (Was that on VH1? I may have to google that one.)

Or blame your brother Randy. YES! Because he did that reality show with Brody Jenner. Which means he could have been affected in some small way by Spencer from The Hills. And a Melrose Place remake starring Ashley Simpson? Has Spencer fucking Pratt written all over it. If Heidi shows up in that shit, we’ll know for sure.

The world makes sense again. Thank god.

But Spencer will NEVER be the new Michael Mancini.

I KNOW! You came to this very spot expecting 90210. Because as a person disgustingly and pathetically in love with all things Dylan-centric, I should have many many thoughts on this (bastardized?) continuation of The Way of the Walsh.

But I don’t. Because I haven’t seen it yet. I COULD explain here about why I was absent from the couch during such a monumentous TV viewing situation but then it would involve things like cracking sheet rock and “Oh look! We took those pillars out from under the house and now the bathroom door won’t shut.” Comments like that tend to make the hubs go a little stabby…

Instead I will just say… DVR? Yes please. And know that even though it is once again Project Runway-day I won’t be watching it either because I still haven’t seen LAST WEEK’S episode. Am extreme slacker… yes… but also? Was at beach. So I thank you for your patience. And if you were one of those people who emailed me and the subject said 90210? I’m not ignoring you. I’m just afraid to open the email until I’ve watched with the proper reverence. And medication. (Because really? New kids? WHO CARES. I want, nay I NEED to know if Steve has burned down Casa Walsh yet.)

But what I’m trying to get out of my head is that thank god I’m still playing catch up at work and don’t have to be super-vigilant about avoiding any mention of that damn Brenda Walsh and how she is going to fuck up the program THIS time around. Seriously though? You can pry my TiVo from my cold, dead hands.

There is something to be said for aging gracefully. Many things even. One of those things would perhaps be that… I’m not participating in the “graceful” part of aging. I’m horrified by the ever deepening wrinkle that has taken up permanent residence on my forehead but maybe more perplexed by the random acne that still insists on showing up on my chin. I think it’s safe to assure you that even if I were to look absolutely adorable in something off the pages of the Abercrombie (does that show my age? Do they still exist? What ARE the kids wearing these days?) catalog you’d be more likely to find me in Ann Taylor or J. Jill. But I won’t lie… I do love a good flirty sundress and as long as the girls stay north of my belly button I fully intend to flaunt the cleavage. On a Hollywood scale I’d say I’m somewhere better than Dina Lohan but definitely worse than Jamie Lee Curtis and not even on the same planet as Susan Sarandon. All of whom could be my mother which makes that a pointless comparison.

So let’s try again, shall we? And this time I’ll translate it into my own language…

I’m aging more gracefully than Brandon Walsh. Because oh my sweet, dreamy, self-righteous and pain in the ass Brandon Walsh, I used to gaze upon your expressive pout and gravity defying hair and think that if Cher Horowitz was, indeed, saving herself for Luke Perry thereby rendering Dylan McKay unavailable to me, that you would do quite nicely in the pinch. As long as I didn’t have to meet your sister…

I would like to go on the record and retract that statement…

I’m kind of not so much wanting to cuddle with you over campus politics and a megaburger as I just want to send you somewhere for a shower and a good shave. You’ve become a bizarre hybrid of Paul Rudd, Jason Bateman and Russell Crowe on their very worst days. Three boys who I generally find endearingly adorable even in their slight scruffiness. But Brandon. Sweetie. You are bordering on dangerously skeevy. Not so much “former teen idol” as you are “the future of creepy middle aged men”. I’m less inclined to show my as-yet unborn daughter the magic of 90210 so much as I want to make sure you aren’t her 11th grade english teacher.

It would also seem that your daughter and I are harboring the same fear of your wife’s cheekbones. Or maybe her chin. I’m unsure which one it is. Those things are unnatural. And yet I cannot look away.

Photos from US Magazine

Hi. You came back. I’m floored. I was certain all the talk of pooping and the ill conceived phrase “gastrointestinal hippie” would send you running for the hills. But you came back. I have no doubts that at some point in the next five minutes you will regret this decision.

But fear not! I have no talk of poop or any sort of bodily function (well, not intentional… sometimes they just kind of slip out) and although the Daily Dish spoke of not one but TWO decomposing bodies this morning I shall refrain. You are welcome.

Even better than decomposing corpses and bodily functions (but NOT Stephen Colbert)… it’s 90210 and reality television! I know. You are so lucky. What contest in hell did you win? And no, I’m sorry, but elective decapitation is not an alternative prize.

I will be the first to admit a general disdain for reality television. Most of it kind of sucks sweaty donkey balls and the latest offering I’ve just read about makes my eyeballs ache and my teeth itch. I did not watch the first season of Dancing with the Stars. Instead I mocked every commercial I saw calling it a sign of the apocalypse. But then one evening during the second season when Patrick was working late and I’d watched EVERYTHING on On Demand and there was nothing worth watching, not even on the Travel Channel and I had not a lick of artistic inspiration I succumbed. Headfirst. To the cute short boy from that boy band.

Then there was another season. And I did it AGAIN and this time? I took Patrick down with me. I felt my resolve further slipping as I was then sucked in by the bare-chested Dave Navarro and that singing Hobbit and then suddenly I was watching Rockstar Supernova too. DAMN.

And we all know I have those white rappers to contend with…

But now? Something wonderful has happened! When Diane Sawyer spilled the beans to me yesterday on Good Morning America it was like the heavens parted and a host of heavenly creatures (by which I mean the male cast of Grey’s Anatomy) sang down to me. Steve. Sanders. Steve Sanders is going to shake his groove thing in my general direction. Steve Sanders who I loved even with his bleach blonde white boy ‘fro and long jean shorts with a fanny pack back in 1989. That’s an overstatement. I did not love the fanny pack. Steve Sanders who pretended to have his heart broken by the girl now appearing in Olive Garden commercials looking for her kid with the shoes he can’t keep tied and isn’t she worried he will fall down and poke his eye out with a breadstick?

She could probably sue Brenda Walsh for that…

“How was the meeting madam president?”

“It was fine. Our fall art show has taken on yet another life since we can’t seem to get funding secured for the prizes. So now there are no prizes, just a bunch of people selling their artwork and then some food and music.”

“What about the wine?”

“Obviously there will be wine. Drunk people spend more.”

“So does it also have yet another name?”

“Yes it does. And I named it. I’m quite proud too. It’ll be called ‘Art After Dark’. What do you think?”

“Art After Dark? As in a blatant rip-off of the Peach Pit After Dark? And is anyone else painfully aware that you haven’t made a decision in 15 years that wasn’t in some part influenced by 90210?”

“DAMMIT! Nobody else said anything. Do you think they noticed and just thought I was a big dumb fool?”

“You may need to sit down to hear this but Susannah, not everyone thinks that Beverly Hills, 90210 was the cultural phenomenon that you did. Very few people compare every man they ever dated to Dylan McKay and curse Brenda Walsh on a bad hair day.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Seek therapy.”

“You bastard! I can’t believe you couldn’t let me revel in my brilliance for even a second.”

“And I can’t believe that I immediately made the 90210 connection. What have you done to me.?”

“You are quite possibly my single greatest achievement my dear.”