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Why Can’t I Be More Like Tina S. Fey?

by Amber on September 16, 2010

Tina S. Fey might not be the most beautiful actress in Hollywood (though Tina Fey’s wikipedia page tells me she did make People’s 100 Most Beautiful People list four years in a row). Or the richest. But when the Mean Girls who live in my head start sniping at me, their tirade goes something like, “You think you’re funny? You’re not funny. Tina Fey is funny. You’re just…mediocre. ”

“You’ve never written for SNL, like Tina S. Fey has. Or been on stage at Second City, like Tina Fey was. Or written a movie, never mind starred in one as funny as Date Night, like Tina S. Fey did. You’re just a small town copywriter who dreams of writing something as funny as Tina Fey’s Sarah Palin skits.”

Yeah, those Mean Girls, they’re not very nice.

But we’re not so different, me and Tina S. Fey. We both suffered childhood trauma (though mine didn’t leave me anything like Tina Fey’s scar).

We both have super cute daughters.

Tina Fey and her daughter Alice

Tina Fey and her daughter? Okay, maybe not.

We both trained at the Second City. Sure, I was in Detroit, not Chicago. And took writing classes, not improv. But I can still write some damn funny sketches. In fact, if those Saturday Night Live talent scouts had been in my comedy writing classes (when I had everyone in stitches), it might have been me, not Tina Fey, who got offered a job writing for Saturday Night Live.

Then it could be me, not Tina Fey, who has a hit TV show (30 Rock) And a fabulously neurotic alter ego (Liz Lemon).

It could be me, not Tina Fey, with a spread in Esquire Magazine.

It could be me starring in an American Express commercial with Martin Scorsese—not Tina Fey.

But alas, I was seven years and 300 or so miles too late to get noticed by those Saturday Night Live scouts.

That’s just as well, though. Tina Fey looks way better in glasses than I ever did. Plus, Tina Fey’s way skinnier than I’ll ever be. And just the thought of being on stage doing Weekend Update is enough to make me break out into a cold sweat.

I’m much better off behind my keyboard and away from the cameras. But if I ever write a best selling novel that gets turned into an Oscar-winning screenplay?  And Hollywood comes calling, wanting to do a Lifetime Movie of the Week about my life? I want Tina Fey to play me. It’s only fair, considering how many years I’ve spent wishing I could be her.

I think she’d look good as a redhead, don’t you?

This post is my contribution to Aunt Becky’s quest to prank the Internet. Her pranksters are all trying to pull a John C. Mayer on the Internet. So, dear readers, if you love me at all, will you stumble, digg and tweet the hell out of this thing? It would do my heart good to find myself on the first page of Tina Fey’s google results.

Update: I’m number one on her google page:

Number one on Tina S. Fey's google results

I'm number one on Tina S. Fey's google results!

I’m also linking up with Mama Kat and the SITS Girls, so go give them some sugar, will you?


A Masterful Title.

by Amber on September 15, 2010

Welcome to Day Three of the Back to Blogging event over at The SITS Girls. Today’s assignment was the simplest of all. It just asked us to re-post something with a title we love. Now, I thought about posting one of my most SEO-friendly headlines, or one that regularly lands searchers on my blog, but instead I give you…

Yo Gabba Gabba: I’m Not Drinking The Kool-Aid.

Okay, guys. I admit it. I’m still relatively new to this whole parenting thing, and so may not fully appreciate the wonder that is a television show that holds a rug rat’s interest for a whole thirty minutes. But Yo Gabba Gabba? Creeps me the heck out.

I mean, dudes, those characters are scary. Just look at ‘em:

Tell me how Muno, the six-foot tall dildo, is supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside? If you ask me, Brobee looks like something straight out of a technicolor nightmare, as does Toodee. The only one who gets any cute points at all, in my humble opinion, is Foofa, and from what I’ve seen, she doesn’t get as much screen time as some of the others.

And as for DJ Lance? Well, picking on him is just too easy. So I won’t. Besides, you’ve got to respect a grown man who isn’t afraid to run around in an orange jumpsuit.
Now, I’ve heard that the music is what makes the show so attractive to young and old alike, but for the most part, the songs they sing make me want to shoot myself in the ear so I never have to hear them again. Especially this one:

After I watch this, there’s no party in my tummy. Maybe a little vomit in my mouth, but that’s not the same thing. And sure, it is pretty catchy (I’m sure I’ll be singing it until I want to bash my head in), but that’s not always a good thing.
Nope, for shows featuring culturally relevant music, I think my house is going to rely on good old Sesame Street.

How can you not laugh at that?

I’m sure I’ve outraged a good number of you (this Yo Gabba Gabba thing seems to have achieved crazy cult status), and maybe have even tempted a few of you to hit the un-follow button, but I hope we can still be friends.

Who knows. Maybe a few months from now, someone will have forced the magic koolaid down my throat, and I’ll be wanting Muno to be my daughter’s first boyfriend. But for now? I’d like to keep them as far from me and mine as humanly possible.

I won’t lose my official Mommy Card for that, will I?

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An Unrecognized Masterpiece.

September 14, 2010

Tweet It’s day two of the Back to Blogging event over at The SITS Girls. And today, I’m re-posting an old favorite—one that didn’t get the appropriate amount of love the first time around. So without further ado, I give you… A Visit With A Little Green Monster. One evening not too terribly long ago, […]

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Where It All Began.

September 13, 2010

Tweet This week, in honor of my second blogoversary, I am participating in the Back to Blogging event over at The SITS Girls. Today’s assignment? Re-post the very first post you ever wrote and reflect. So, now, for your reading pleasure, I give you… Who, Me? A Mommy? It was 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday. […]

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