An Open Letter To Shonda Rhimes: Pull The Goddamn Plug On Grey’s




Dear Ms. Rhimes:

Hi, it’s me, Miss Banshee. So I just wanted to jot down a little note to thank you for the two hour “special” you aired tonight. I have never had a colonoscopy performed with a power drill, but now I know what that feels like. A whole year condensed into two hours. And such riveting hours they were! Screaming burn patients! Richard and Debbie Allen squabbling! Bailey and her husband squabbling! Meredith running away to…somewhere with a beach! A pregnancy that my granny saw coming! My granny has been dead since 2000, Ms. Rhimes, and yet I received a text from her that simply said “DUH” when Mere’s pregnancy was revealed.

But I digress. Packed into those two fun filled hours was endless footage of DeadDerek, who was the luckiest of the bunch, because he is finally off this ferryboat of pain and misery. We have endured over a decade of horrors befalling Seattle Grace Grey Sloane Partridge In A Fucking Pear Tree Hospital, the place where you will either die or have your life ruined entirely. Derek’s sister had some drugs, and although I value my sobriety quite dearly, I not only wanted her to get high as a kite, I wanted her to slip me a couple of them for sitting through that nonsense. And did we for a moment think that SaintlyApril would die? We did not, Ms. Rhimes, because we have watched television before and knew that Jackson would get his happy reunion because he’s super hot.

Now, a word about Karev. Who? Exactly. We have gone through this entire season without the man having anything to do but school interns and be there as a shoulder to cry on/punching bag for his “friends.” Get this man a story line before he up and quits and you have to drop a helicopter on him. ER did that TWICE to a doctor, but I have a feeling you really don’t care enough about this show any more to deter you.

Ms. Rhimes, I am thrilled with your success in a massively predominant white male profession. Thrilled. Your other shows are flourishing, and if you just don’t give two rats’ asses about Grey’s any longer, let it die. Let it die like the burn victim that we grew to love because she was literally the only likable character in the episode. When she sang the Christmas carol to her roommate, I knew she was toast. Burnt toast, if you will. Was that tasteless? Absolutely, but so was this 120 minute droning dial tone you called a “special event.”

There are loony birds on this medium we call the innerwebz who are petitioning to bring Derek back to life, and although again, I wouldn’t put it past you, since I have yet to forget Izzie and Dead Denny doing the nasty for like, half a season. Do not listen to these people. Keep Derek dead. Keep Cristina in Europe. Give Owen a girlfriend who is not irrevocably emotionally damaged. Give Karev a goddamn story line. Bring back the Bailey of yore. And please, PLEASE end this show. Because I have invested so much time and emotion into this program that you know I’ll watch to the bitter end.

And what a bitter end this has ended up being.

image courtesy of Geddy 

Back From The Dead



Soooooo. Hi, everyone. I was doodling around on the internet today and lo and behold, I remembered this little corner of the universe. So I check the date of my last entry and HA! I made it back within a year of my last post! Sure, I only had eleven days before it would have been an entire year, but that’s neither here nor there. I am back, I am better than ever, I am correctly medicated, sober, living with my darling friend A Madison Mom and her beautiful family, in outpatient treatment, and for the first time in forever, I am HAPPY. So much shit has transpired since last we spoke I feel too overwhelmed to get into all of it at once, but let’s just say I was in the darkest place I’ve ever been in, and now I am working on pulling myself out of it. Everything will come out in time. Forgive me that, but it’s just a bit much to regurgitate right now.

ANYWAY. So! How are you? You’re looking GREAT today. Are those pants new? Your ass looks fantastic in them. You got a haircut, didn’t you? Awesome. Look at you, all snazzy with your pants and your hair, being all gorgeous.

Oh, me? I’m looking like this lately. Just so you can put a face to the name. I know it’s been a long time and you probably are all “Who is this Banshee person? I seem to recall a Miss Banshee, but that was eons ago.” A helpful reminder:



I’m thinking of using this as an official headshot. Not for acting again, aw HELL to the no, but as my writing headshot. I dunno, I think it’s a little Jay-Leno-chinny. Eh, I’ll figure it out.

What else? I don’t have a lot of time right now because I am babysitting The Small Human and The Tiny Human tonight and we have big plans. Plans that include ice cream and the DVR’d American Idol. So a real update will come later. I just wanted to say hi and tell y’all that despite everything that has gone down lately, I am really, really okay. Things are changing all over the place and I think it’s definitely for the best. The way life was going before was most assuredly NOT going the right way, so all change is good change right now. I have to believe that.

I’ll leave you with this. I didn’t write it, I think Aaron Sorkin did, but it’s from “The West Wing” and it has stayed with me since I first saw it. It sums up everything that has been going on quite nicely, I think.

“This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, ‘Hey you. Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, ‘Father, I’m down in this hole can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it’s me can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’ The friend says, ‘Yeah, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.'”

Be good to each other, my beloved little squirrels. I’ll be back to write more before ya know it.

The Kit Kat Klub Is Proud To Present: The Broken Soul Of Sally Bowles

Sometimes when I want to wind down and relax, I write psychological profiles of fictional characters. This won’t be interesting to some people, but this is the kind of shit I do for fun. Please to enjoy.

CABARET’s Sally Bowles is the most complex female character in musical theater, and therefore the hardest to play. Many attempt, few succeed in portraying her due to the incredible nuances of the role. For one, Sally doesn’t really exist. She has created a character, someone completely fabricated in name and personality to hide the broken child inside. Slathered with makeup and hair dye, drenched in gin, she flees to Berlin to become one with the stage. Everything from her eyelashes to her smile is unnatural.

She is so afraid of her true self she carves out a personality that is born of debauchery and false joy, her warpaint of red lips and kohl lined eyes protecting her from reality. On stage she is a painted doll, raucous and saucy, but her eyes are always empty. The beauty of the role is Sally’s fragility. She’s delusional, tragic,and sometimes highly unlikable, desperately craving attention but never letting anyone in out of sheer terror of her real self being discovered – a classic case of Borderline Personality Disorder. However she has moments of agonizing clarity.

Her abortion is necessary in her eyes “What a burden for an infant” she mournfully says to Cliff, knowing that she is completely incapable of monogamy or giving up her false sense of security in the theater, because, as she wails in the title song, “When I go? I’M GOING LIKE ELSIE” meaning that the debauchery and sin that has become her entire existence will kill her as it did her friend back in Chelsea. Performed correctly, when she sings this, it should be an agonized, raging sob as she accepts her fate. The broken child will never be healed, the makeup will smear and run with her tears, as she succumbs to never being off stage, never being her true self, and ultimately perishing not because “that’s what comes from too much pills and liquor” but because her shattered inner child cannot be repaired.

The song “Cabaret” should be sung as an impotent rage against the dying of the light. Sally is doomed, her smile a painted rictus of pain. She knows this, but does not believe she has the power to stop it. A broken, painted, dying soul, desperate for love that she is incapable of accepting. As Berlin falls, so does the curtain on Sally’s delusion of a life.

Real American Bloggers: Where Is Our Movie?

Many people are making waves about the “American Blogger” movie that’s coming out soon. I’ve only seen the trailer, which made me almost bust my spleen laughing. And not in a good way. I’m not a movie critic or a studio executive or a screenplay writer. But I am a blogger.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My dye job comes from a box, my food comes from chipping away at the ice in the freezer and excavating a frozen pizza. My “kids” are feline and one is currently climbing the curtains. Again.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I have a soft belly, can’t afford a haircut, my bed is never made, and I’ve been known to eat salad out of the bag. My car is falling apart, my apartment is a mess. I spend too much time thinking my life will never be an interesting Facebook post, and that my non-pedicured nails are starting to resemble a velociraptor.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My parents are getting older, and I’m scared to death that I won’t have them around forever and how to deal with that. I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years, and I had Jolly Ranchers for breakfast.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’ve been in nine psych hospitalizations, three rehab facilities, a coma, and ICU more than once. More than twice. I take seven psych meds a day, with various side effects. My psychiatrist doesn’t listen to me, my psychologist is a saint. I also have a masters degree in social work, because life is funny that way.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’m on disability for my mental issues, and deal every day with the stigma of that. People are disgusted by me, call me every name in the book, shamed and humiliated me on social media because they think I’m a waste of space and a drain on society.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I have an incredible support system through family and friends. I have people in my life I have only met on the computer who say they are inspired by me. They will never know how much they inspire and encourage me, even in my darkest hours.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’ve been writing a blog on and off since 2000. That’s fourteen years of pouring words into a computer because they explode out of me and this is better than writing in Sharpie on the walls. I blog because it has saved my life.

I’m a real life American Blogger. No one will ever make a movie out of my life, offer me advertising space on this little corner of the internet. I may never get married, or have kids. Sometimes I feel that’s a good thing, and sometimes it makes a hole in my heart.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My name is Danielle, and I write. And that’s plenty.

Lady In Red Part The Second: Meet The Contenders

I may need an intervention.

I may need an intervention.

SO! I dug through my makeup collection, which is my biggest addiction and has been since high school, and found all my red lipstick. I, um, have a LOT of red lipstick. I didn’t buy a single one of these reds for this article. They were ALL in my bag. Let my obsession be your guide. And other than the one from Sephora and the one from MAC (both mistakes, as you will see below) none of these cost more than seven dollars at your local drugstore. Some were even less. You do NOT have to pay a fortune for your makeup, you just have to know what’s worth your hard earned money. Let’s begin with the reds, and then move along to the glosses so we can give everyone the PERFECT red lippie.


Rimmel London Lasting Finish By Kate #107: Dry but fabulous. A deep red with brick tones. Perfect under gloss. This is a red that is meant to be noticed


Revlon Super Lustrous Certainly Red #740: Creamy vibrant red. Comes off on everything, but can be controlled by careful blotting.


Revlon Colorburst Femme Fatale #135: This is a chunky pencil that goes on smooth with pink undertones. Not great, not bad. Another smear-factory. I’d pass on this one.


Revlon Just Bitten Lipstain and Balm Gothic: Junk. Do not buy this. The stain is weak and the tip dries out quickly. The balm isn’t as good as regular ol’ Chapstick. A waste of money.


Maybelline The Elixir Signature Scarlet #020: An excellent lacquer. Not as rich as Rimmel (see below) and more expensive than Rimmel, but in a pinch, it’s great. Bright red with slight pink undertones. 005

Rimmel London Exaggerate Lip Liner Red Diva #024: The key to a lasting red is to line AND FILL IN your lips with red pencil. Rimmel offers a cheap and totally serviceable red that will make your red endure all day.


Rimmel London Show Off Lip Lacquer Big Bang: The mecca of reds. A rich, deep blood red, excellent shine, creamy texture. I LOVE this red. And it’s cheap enough to keep one at home and one in your bag. Apply it over the Rimmel liner and you’re good to go all day.


Sephora Kat Von D Collection Hellbent: Crap. Too expensive, weak tone, STICKY. Do not waste your bucks.


Physicians Formula Plump Potion Clear #70: Pretty good. It gives the illusion of plumping, it’s good over a lippie, semi-sticky. Beware if you’re sensitive to lip-tingling.


Rimmel London Stay Glossy Seduce Me #820: Not a hugely impressive finish. Makes a dry lipstick shiny, but not glassy. Good bang for your buck, though, and not sticky at all.


MAC Lip Glass Clear: The ultimate glassy finish (which, for the money, it better be) and I’ve had the same tube for EONS. Takes the tiniest drop for perfect glossy finish. Downside? It’s the stickiest thing ever. Lordo help you if you have hair that is long enough to get stuck in this. It’s infernally gooey. I pass on it 9 times out of 10 because it’s just not worth the stickiness. Sometimes expensive isn’t better.

So there you have it! Go forth and wear red, because you are rad, and you should flaunt it without breaking the bank. Wear red lipstick TODAY!

I Have Blogger Angst, So I’m Going To Write About It On My Blog

Hello, my beloved little squirrels! I’m here today to not only resurrect my over-a-month-long-neglected blog, but to tell you that I have angst. Yes, I have blogger angst, and of course I’m going to tell you about it, because that’s why people HAVE blogs.

*applies thick coating of black eyeliner, lights candles and puts The Cure on iPod*

Blogger angst is a tricky thing. I’ve been staring at a blank screen since February, trying to think of something Important! And Relevant! to talk about, and I’ve come up with bupkus. Sure I could talk about finding Finn splayed out in front of Goddo and everyone and Lulu sleeping IN HIS CROTCH, but that would be gauche, and anyway, I can just show you a picture.

My home has become a den of sin.

My home has become a den of sin.

Or I could talk about my new haircut, and how I’m concerned about it being too emo, but I could just show you a picture of that too.

So. Much. Angst.

 So. Much. Angst.

And pictures of my slutty cats and a selfie hardly count as a blog entry, am I right? So I kept staring at the screen, negotiating with myself.

Me: I have to write something MEANINGFUL. Something DEEP.

Common Sense: Oh please. You just talked about your cats living in a den of sin.

Me: I’m slacking. Blogs are dying. I’m not doing anything interesting. Everything is angst.  I’m going to listen to Disintegration again.

CS: Will you just SHUT UP? Listen, sure you don’t get to go to Disney World because you blog. Maybe thousands of people don’t read you. Maybe you STILL haven’t written your book. But you LOVE writing, and you love the people who take time out of their lives to read it. Quit gazing at your shoes and love your blog for what it is. And get moving, you’re only 309 words in, and you have this weird thing about writing 500 words per post, and seriously, you’re on, like, a million psych meds, NONE of which are helping with your strange OCD tendencies.

Me: I’m NOT gazing at my shoes. I’m not WEARING shoes.

CS: Also, you need a pedicure.

Me: No way. I only get them when I have a gift certificate, and they make me anxious.

CS: How in the name of pants can a pedicure make you anxious?

Me: Another person, a person I do not know, is cleaning my nasty-ass feet. A PERSON WHO ISN’T JESUS.

CS: So it would be kosher if Jesus was giving you a pedicure?

Me: I see what you did there.

CS: I’m way more clever than you are.

Me: You really are. So have we reached 500 words yet?

CS: Nope. I don’t think this blog post is going to score us an all-expenses paid trip to Disney World.

Me: That sucks. I love Soarin’. That’s the best ride. Also the smoking corners.

CS: We know where ALL the smoking corners are!

Me: I know! Happiest place on earth, right???

CS: We’re awesome! And you reached 500 words.

Me: Still no Disney World.

CS: But that’s okay, right? I mean, you’re writing, and that’s what counts.

Me: Damn right. Let’s eat some pizza.

And? That’s how I got over my blogger angst. Sure I don’t make a dime from this. Sure I don’t have thousands of readers or a book or a verified Twitter account. And the bloggers who do? I love you! I think it’s awesome that you did your thing and got what you deserve. Never doubt that. I think I’ll just keep writing. Cause that’s just the dance I do.

Six hundred words. I’ve even exceeded myself. And that’s rad.


My First Kiss Tasted Like Newports: A Valentines Day Story

I had my first kiss when I was 14. It was at a Catholic school dance in another town. I was invited by KG, a girl friend of mine, and I eagerly accepted. Boys! I was 14, boy-crazy, and as socially awkward as a person could be. So I dandied myself up, and went. And that’s where I met Angelo. Angelo was SMOKING HAWT, to a 14 year old, and we danced, and I giggled and was a total teenager and acted the fool. He smoked. I didn’t. So I, in a daze, followed him outside away from the chaperones, to watch him smoke. He was SO COOL. And then he was finished with his Newport and kissed me.

OMG. There is a boy. Kissing me. My life is complete.

We stood in the parking lot, kissing chastely, our 90’s outfits glaring against the moon. He told me he loved me, that I was perfect, that we were going to be together forever. I, being a complete fool, thought “YES!!!!” and started planning our wedding. I was an idiot. But then again, I was 14. Everyone’s an idiot at 14.

There was, as there always was in New Jersey in 1992, a Camaro in the parking lot. Suddenly my back was tilted over it and his tongue was in my mouth. WHOA NELLY. I played along, I didn’t feel scared, everything was fine. But I was a bit overwhelmed. He tasted of cigarettes. He seemed so much more mature than I was. What I didn’t realize at the time was that 14 year old boys are completely controlled by hormones, and 14 year old girls still read “Anne of Green Gables” after their bedtimes. At least in 1992.

He didn’t try anything nasty. He just kissed me. But I panicked. I didn’t know anything at that point about panic disorder or any of my other splendid mental disorders. So I started to freak. I kept kissing him. I liked it a LOT, but I was also wigging in the first sense of the word.

He had nice hair.

He asked me for my number. In the days before cell phones, I’d have to give him my parents’ number, and oh my lordo, then they’d know I kissed a boy. So I did the unthinkable.

I gave him a fake number.

I was such an asshole.

I’m so sorry, Angelo. I know from KG that you’re a perfectly fine 36 year old man with a family now, but there was a night in 1992 that you kissed me for the first time, and I pulled a DICK MOVE on you. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m sorry that my crazy brain was starting to be REALLY crazy, and I’m sorry if we dented that Camaro.

Ah, romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.