So...Sometimes God hears your prayers and sends you an angel...and a downright handsome one at that!

I am hoping against hope that tomorrow I'm caller #10.

Or that he knows Stanley Tucci.

Happy, Glorious New Year everyone!

Love Love Love - Candi!!

Dear Candi,
I read your blog! What a joy to know I inspired you for all these years!

I also just whispered a prayer for you to have a wonderful 2010.
May God bless you abundantly and please know that I am here for you... if you're caller #10... he he

Your fan,
Rick Dees

P.S. Tape this next to "Expect The Best": "It's Not the Money..It's the Amount"

The Only Reason I Didn't Choose You, Jon...

(tongue firmly placed in cheek...)

The only reason I did not choose you to stalk, Jon...is that we have already spent time together. Not that I didn't enjoy it. I did. But since I was standing between Miss America and someone who was wearing almost half a dress I'm sure you don't remember me, the cute, funny, Sally Field look alike. If you'd remembered me, you'd have called.

And because of that I have chosen Stanley Tucci to love and stalk for ever and ever. He's OK with it. Well, he doesn't really know about it - but when he finds out, he's gonna be tickled pink.

Yes. There is a legitimate reason for that choice of words. He could be married. He could be gay. He could be ignoble. All of these things will make me sad - but they will not stop me. I am nothing if not relentless. And I have heard often enough, that I am something. Therefore, the worst I can hope for, is his being tickled pink. The best I can hope for is someone to sit with at Broadway shows who gets the joke the same moment I do. Oh heck, I probably won't even get a kiss out of the guy.

That might be ok - going a little slowly. Especially after the dating Rocky Balboa fiasco I went through in New York. Wait. You didn't hear about that, Jon? See, you never call. You never write. I'll tell you allllll about Mr. Rocky W. Balboa - when we talk.

I mean, come on. We both get an award from the USO for our charitable acts. Sure. You did less but still got a statue and got to make a speech. Maybe because you have that popular little TV show? I'm not bitter. I have seven TV shows - well, my voice does - and my physical self is so popular that I can go to the gym any time and get right on (after waiting an hour) any elliptical machine I want.

So what, my USO award was smaller. OK, I didn't get an actual physical award. But I did get to stand with six others who held car washes, made 30 quilts, and raised over $625.00 AMERICAN DOLLARS to help our returning warriors. As they recited my name and revealed that I arranged to deliver over 10,000 toys from cartoon studios to the children of servicemen, made a dozen trips to Washington DC - at my own cost - and brought along dozens of my friends out with me to entertain the wounded, returned and children of US Warriors, the sound of the "hand clap" was thunderous and that was enough for me. You and I laughed about that, remember? Well, I laughed, Jon.

So after our magical night together where we actually did sit and have a cocktail or 9 until about 3 am, after the evening's festivities - I would have hoped for more from you. Flowers? Candy? I don't have any idea why I would expect it, but it's nice to have incremental goals, no?

I didn't get anything from you - not the promised invitation to the set, not the set-up with the producer guy who you thought was kinda cute for me. Nothing. Instead I make it to NY, call your producer and am offered seats at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And even that didn't really happen. Even THAT is made up. So what do I have from you, Jon? Nothing. So I have to move on.

Far from being delusional, and to be perfectly honest not that far, I am feeling a little justified in moving the object of my affection from you to Stanley Tucci. His name makes my heart flutter.

He's handsome. He's funny. He's smart. He's exactly right for me. Shortish. Middle-aged. Bald. Talented beyond belief. I love him. I don't actually know him. But I bet he'd love me. He's going to. Eventually. If I promise to stay a few feet away.

I am writing a show about my love for Stanley. It's a show - not cabaret. I hate the term cabaret. I feel like I need to be in a bowler hat when I say it. I also hate the term one-woman show. I have seen enough of these for me to actually wish the term to be banished from the English language. I am going to do a teeny-tiny little musical show about my love life, or lack thereof, and it will all be for my Stanley.

The name of the show is "I'm Stalking Stanley Tucci." I have written the opening monologue and the first song. I just have to now pull material from my rich dating life that seems to occur only in my mind...and put it on paper. Liza did it in "Ring Them Bells" - so I have a predecessor in unreturned love.

Wish me luck, Jon. I hope to hear from you very soon. From you, Jon. Not from your attorney.

You know you love me,

Candi

I like my hair.

But sometimes I'm afraid to. You know, that old superstition that if you love something a lot, God will think it's vanity and take it right away? I do. I grew up in the Catholic church and they have a ton of rules against feeling good about a lot of things. Better you should wear a nice brown robe.

I know. Totally amish sounding, right?

"Can't we all just be plain?!"

I just want to know what the line is. You know? What do you have to say to get God pissed so that he takes your assets away. Where is the vanity section of being happy? Cause I don't want to spend my life crossing my fingers, spitting ptui ptui, or saying God forbid...when all I am, is happy about a good hair day.

That I happen to have a lot.

Because I have great hair.

Fingers crossed. Spitting. God forbid.

Or?!?!? Do you lose something else that you weren't grateful enough for, while you were crowing about your hair? Do you wake up, look in the mirror and are about to remark about how even bed head looks good on y--...and you suddenly realize you have no idea who that IS staring back at you in the mirror.

Think God takes your mind over your hair?

I think sometimes he might. There are times I look in the mirror and have no idea who that is staring back - cause last time I looked I looked like Farrah Faucet (see photo above).

I really want to preserve the few things that I think I got going on. And if that means never mentioning how grateful I am to have great hair - or to pooh pooh those who compliment my mane - or to self-denigrate (Oh yeah! Thanks. I got got great hair...everywhere...hahaha...thanks Mom and Dad...haha) - I will.

Because while everything else about me physically is slowly making its way to the ground - everything above my ears is good.

Thought I would pass a little randomness your way while I wait for the healthcare bill to implode at the hands of the nay-sayers. Some of whom have really great hair. But no minds. Which is what made me wonder in the first place.

Do you still love me?

Tiger Woods. Tiger. Tiger Woods. Two different women.

That's why they came forward, you know.

The three of them - if you count the mother of his children - all thought they were the only woman. Well two of them knew about the whole mother of his children thing. But one woman thought she was the only one. The actual mother of his children. That was Tiger's mistake. Well, one of them. The other one was having his wife find out about the other two while she was near a golf club. Fore!

Tiger. Tiger Woods. I guess the whole best friend thing, the whole soul mate thing. That was transient. Passing. To be having sex with other women when your wife's in her seventh month of pregnancy is disgusting. But familiar. John Edwards' wife had cancer. Shame.

You know what? I'm gonna blame FaceBook...nerds dictating social interaction. Gets us all revved up that maybe WE won't be caught. Maybe WE could dally and have a cyber intimate relationship and no one will ever know if its on our private wall...

Private. Privacy.

Now, Tiger'd like privacy. Shoulda picked different hookers. Sorry, I mean exotic dancers. Sorry again, I mean, the PC thing to say is it isn't only their fault, right? Right. How could they have known this famous millionaire, who graced every sports magazine cover on the planet, was married to a woman who was about to deliver his child??? How indeed. They're just dancers...

Or as Ron Burgundy would say...pirate hookers...

You know you love me....