What makes a great actress? Is it talent, sass, timing, beauty . . . a mix of all of the above? For me, a great actress is one who, after I’ve sat through a true stinkbomb of a movie, makes me say, “Well, that was just terrible. The only good thing about it was Actress McActressy.”
This is why, coincidentally, you’ll not see one of my favorite actresses, Michelle Rodriguez, on the following list. I think she’s beautiful, and I love that she usually plays strong, kickass women. But she’s been in several stinkers whose stinkiness couldn’t be overcome by her beauty and muscle. (See, I love her, but I’m starting to suspect she’s not very good at acting.) This disclaimer aside (I love you, Michelle! Forgive me!), I present the five greatest actresses working today:

5. Emma Watson

Emma is the youngest entry on our list, and sure, cynics might say she hasn’t really proven herself yet. But I’ll tell you something: this girl is remarkable already, and she’s only 27.
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Besides being the perfect Hermione, and also winning over the cold, dead heart of a beast (that was me, when I heard they were remaking Beauty and the Beast as a live action film), she’s also a decent human being and a heck of a role model for young women. She speaks out against racism, gender inequality, and homophobia, started a feminist book club (Our Shared Shelf), and had not one crap to give when fashion magazines criticized her short haircut. Because seriously, people, she’s got more important things to fight for.

4. Viola Davis

I like strong women. I like it even better when you don’t realize how butt kickin' they are until you're halfway through the show. And that, my friends, is Viola Davis.

Davis has been acting for over two decades, but she’s probably best known for her role as Aibileen Clark in The Help. (That pie. How could you forget that pie?) I’d read the book before knowing a movie was in the works, and when I heard Viola was cast in the main role, it all clicked perfectly: of course she’d play Aibileen. Nobody else possibly could.

Davis is also the only black woman to have ever won the triple crown of acting awards: an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony. Of course she has. She's Viola Davis.

Remember how I said a great actress can make a total turd of a movie (also kind of a pie reference again) memorable? Whenever I see Davis’s name in the opening credits, I relax. Because even with a stinkeroo like Suicide Squad, she made watching it bearable.

3. Robin Wright

I’ll be honest: for a long time, I really didn’t like Robin Wright. As both Buttercup (The Princess Bride) and Jenny (Forrest Gump), I thought she wasn’t worth all the death-defying feats and chest-pounding and "not even death can keep me away" garbage these men were doing to be with her.

Then two things happened: I read The Princess Bride, and I watched House of Cards. The former opened my eyes to the fact that Buttercup wasn’t particularly likeable anyway, and the one scene that made her more relatable (when she embarrasses herself proclaiming her love to a stunned Wesley, who says nothing, and she’s mortified) was cut from the movie. This wasn’t Wright’s fault: Buttercup was written to be a simpering  snob. The latter, on the other hand, showcased a character who was cold, cruel, manipulative and . . . whose actions were completely understandable. Wright’s Claire Underwood is a nuanced portrayal of a terrible woman who has perfectly sensible reasons for doing what she does. I found myself admiring Robin Wright for the first time in my adult life.

Then came Wonder Woman. Wright’s General Antiope was magnificent. Powerful, fierce, brilliant and beautiful. And I now find myself in a position I wouldn’t have believed just a few years ago. Say one bad word about Robin Wright in my presence, and I’ll punch a hole through your throat faster than you can say “Antiope.” 

2. Maggie Smith

My mother may never forgive me for saying this, but there was a time, around season four, when Downton Abbey got a little . . . boring. I was sick of Mr. and Mrs. Bates (seriously, could they ever get a break?) and hated all one hundred of Mary’s suitors. But there was no chance I was going to stop watching. Because Maggie Smith.

She’s elegant, refined, an honest-to-goodness dame (it’s British, look it up) and hilarious. Every role she takes on is gold in her hands. Her cast mates love her. Her country loves her. Our country loves her. We all love Maggie, because she’s amazing.

1. Helen Mirren

Maggie Smith may be delightful and elegant and all that fancy stuff, but Helen Mirren is a real dame. (You know, in the colloquial sense, but again, also in the British title sense.) When I grow up, I want to be Helen Mirren.

She’s classy and funny and charming and sexy and smart. She speaks her mind and doesn’t give one ladylike fart if you agree or disagree: you asked her what she thought, and she told you, and sounded brilliant while doing it. She’s seventy-one and not afraid say she likes being naked. Atta girl.

Besides being a pretty fascinating person, she’s a fabulous actress, too. From Caligula to The Queen, she doesn’t shy away from any role, and forgive me Alma Hitchcock, but now when I read biographies about Hitch I picture you as Helen Mirren, because she made the role come alive in an otherwise somewhat depressing movie. She even popped up in The Fate of the Furious—the eighth installment in a franchise that should’ve ended years ago—and arguably made it the best one in the series.
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So there you have it. Agree, disagree, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to take a page from Dame Mirren’s handbook—or really, any one of these amazing women—and not give one tiny, ladylike fart.

(It's another one of those "I'm not going to meet all my deadlines! AAAAIIIIIAAHHH!" weeks. So I'm rerunning this gem from 2012.)

It's true, gentle reader. In my former life, I worked as a bunny.

It's not something I like to brag about. I was young and I needed the money. I was eighteen years old, all blonde and curvy, and if there was ever a time when I was fit to wear a bunny suit, that was it.

Sure, my parents were a little embarrassed. They weren't telling anyone what I was doing for a living. But they also instilled in me a very strong work ethic, and they knew that no matter what I set my mind to do, I would do it to the best of my ability. And that's what I did, during my month as a bunny.

It wasn't easy. Most of my customers just wanted to look, so I never bothered to speak. Sometimes, I had to hop and shake my tail a little bit, and one time I pulled my hamstring and landed in some strange guy's lap. He just gave me a wink and a hug and offered me some candy. I can't tell you how many perverts I met in a day, practically undressing me with their eyes.

It was uncomfortable, I'll admit. The ears and cuffs were itchy. Nobody cared about my dreams of college or being a writer, or being one of those people with a shred of self dignity. All they cared about was my big blue eyes and whether or not I was willing to give them a little lap dance.

It was hot, and humiliating, but I won't lie—the money was sweet. And really, if I could make some lonely boy smile, no matter how degrading it might be, I suppose it was worth it.

My days as a bunny are long gone, but I still look back on that time with a wistful smile. I do miss the other girls who worked there alongside me. And let me tell you, my calves were never in better shape. But it was a job that couldn't last, and I had to move on to bigger and better things.

There's only one picture in existence of me in my bunny suit. It's a blurry shot of my sister and me, goofing off during my down time. It's time I make peace with that less-than-upstanding time in my life, I suppose. So fine. Here you go. Ogle away, you perverts.

Last month, I told you how Rob Smales and I collaborated on a book. He wrote his first blog entry about it here, then I wrote about it here. He just added a second entry this week, here, and now I’m naturally following suit. Because it’s more fun if you get both sides of the story.

So when I last left you, gentle reader, Rob had sent me his first chapter, I’d written the next one, and in doing so, had taken a left at Albuquerque away from the outline he’d so carefully prepared. I hit send and waited for his response.

If you just read his second entry, you’ll know his initial reaction: Hang about. What the hell is this?

Now, before we embarked on this project, Rob and I had already been quite familiar with each other’s writing styles. He tends to elaborate more than I, creating a slow burn that pays off with a final bonfire at the end. I tend to leapfrog past scenes that I don’t think are vital to the story, or, honestly, just less fun to write. We both knew this about each other. But this was the first time something we were both invested in was actually affected by our (now apparently significant) different approaches.

Our approaches to handling things we don’t agree on are also quite different. When Rob’s frustrated, he’ll sputter and shut down for a bit, then eventually try to talk it out. I, on the other hand, will cry.

Long story short: we hit one hiccup in those first few chapters, which came about mostly because we were both trying to learn how to work with someone in a profession largely known for its solitariness. One bout of sputtering and tears. We talked it out, agreed on how we’d handle the point in question, and went back to writing. More importantly, we realized we were capable of taking lefts at Albuquerque without our friendship imploding.

And then, the magic happened.

As I mentioned in my first collaboration blog post, Rob and I have similar senses of humor. We started shooting the chapters back and forth, and each time I’d get a new one from him, I’d find myself giggling in delight. These characters were fun, and funny. Then my challenge would be to figure out how to move the story forward from there—and how to make him laugh, too. I worried less about making a misstep—that’s what revisions are for—and more about if the action and punchlines were hitting their marks. We fell into sync, trying to end each chapter in a spot where the other might think, Where the heck am I supposed to go from here?

About ten chapters into the book, I sent Rob an email. This was awesome. But where the heck am I supposed to go from here? I could just hear him cackling like an evil madman on the other end of the inbox. Once he’d finished his chortle (which went on a little too long, I might add—it was a good twenty minutes before he responded) he came back with some suggestions. I looked them over, plucked a little bit from one proposition, meshed it with another thought he’d noted, and added a little bit of my own idea. Within minutes, my fingers were flying over the keyboard again. And yes, before I hit send, I let loose an evil cackle of my own.

It was the most fun I’ve ever had while writing, and taught me how important it is, if you’re embarking on something like this, to work with someone you know, whose writing you respect, and whom you trust.
But would it work as a book?

To be continued . . .

I’m going to try and not write about this kind of thing too much, because I suspect it’s a tad boring for you gluten eaters. But my recent necessary diet change has caused a few issues that’ve really cheesed my potatoes (both cheese and potatoes, incidentally: gluten free).

Let me sum up what’s happened: I had severe intestinal distress all day, every day, for approximately eighteen months. It took a long time for the gastroenterologist to finally say, “You know, these other issues (I’d been diagnosed with colitis and SIBO during this journey) are symptoms of something else, like a food intolerance. Stop eating gluten.” So I did.

For those of you considering giving up all that is wheaty and good in this world, let me say first off, if you don’t have to give up gluten, don’t. It’s no fun going through the withdrawal, and once you’re on the other side of it, you will approach every meal with trepidation, both wishing you could remember what flavor tastes like and feeling terrified you might accidentally “get glutened.”

It’s a thing. And, for lack of a better term, it sucks.

When you eliminate all gluten (and you can’t go half-baked on this: you have to cut all of it out if you want the excruciating belly cramping, intestinal wringing-and-spewing, all-over body aches, hand and foot numbness, weird rashes, and brain fog to go away), make no mistake: you will feel like crap for the first couple of weeks. You will suddenly look upon cake, pasta, bread, oatmeal, pudding, couscous, soy sauce, and licorice with renewed longing, even if you rarely ate or even liked any of those things before the very moment you were told you couldn’t have them. You’ll be achy and cranky and, as some family members commented in less-nice terms, “generally unpleasant company.” Also, you’ll still be running to the bathroom four or five times a day until all that gluten is out of your system.

But by week three, you’ll be feeling much better. You’ll be halfway through your morning and suddenly realize your back and knees aren’t barking in pain. You’ll feel clearheaded and energized and yes, thankful most ground coffee doesn’t contain gluten. You’ll dread the potty less. And you won’t be in there every twenty minutes, either. Hallelujah!

You’ll also be much more aware of food ingredients, to the annoyance of anyone eating near you. But you have to be. Because now that you feel life is worth living again, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep that happy feeling.
There are some places you’ll feel “safe” eating: at home, or at my sister-in-law’s house (seriously, Joy, you are a rock star). But the thing is, lots of times when people get together, there’s a meal involved. Meet up for dinner? Um . . . can I talk you into a nice fasting instead?

And that’s where getting glutened comes in.
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I thought the Ninety-Nine Restaurant was a good choice. They’re one of the few places with a “Gluten Sensitive” section on their menu. The first time Jason and I met up with a friend there, I was confident as I ordered a cheeseburger on a gluten-free bun. I saw the disclaimer, but still trusted these guys to do their best.

The meal came. It was good. Then the waiter came over: “How’s that gluten-free bun? Just like the real thing?” He was all smiley and winky and stuff.

And I thought, That was weird.

The next day I woke up and wondered when, exactly, I’d been hit by the rhinoceros driving the Mack truck. Everything hurt, from hair follicles to toenails. I was walking like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, only slower and without the witty one-liners. And let me tell you, this is not the shape you want to be in when the gluten-induced cramps hit and you need to dash (um, wobble with purpose?) toward the bathroom.

It passed in a few days, but being back in that sore, stabbing-stomach-pains, potty emergency place was miserable. Once I felt spryer again I chalked this mishap up to a crabby waiter (except substitute “crabby” with a euphemism for anus). It was just one guy. Right?

So when a different friend and I were making plans to meet up over dinner about a month later, I agreed to give Ninety-Nine another try. It was a different town, likely a different waiter, and hey, the menu proved they were trying, right?

I ordered balsamic chicken with mashed potatoes right off the gluten-sensitive list. Made a point to say I couldn’t eat gluten—even made a point to point at the section in the menu. Asked why rice wasn’t listed there, because it’s usually safe. In hindsight, maybe I was making too much of a fuss. It’s possible our waitress considered spitting in my gluten-free selection. But I was scared. I didn’t want to be hit by that rhino again.
The meal was yummy. So far, so good.

In order to experience how I felt the next morning, this is what I’d like you to do: get in your car. Drive to Las Vegas, Nevada, and park in the Seven Hills, Henderson section of town. It’s a nice golf community—be sure to admire the beautifully manicured lawns. Find the biggest mansion in the area, climb over the polished marble wall, and land on the other side. March up to the door, ring the doorbell, and when Mike Tyson answers, ask him for the all-over iron fist body massage.

Then call him a wuss. That should about do it.

Here’s my point:

1. Don’t trust restaurants when they say something will be prepared gluten-free. Sometimes they lie.
2. Seriously, if you want to get together, can we please catch up over just coffee?