Archive for the ‘Mr. Whitford’ Category

  • Letters to Mr. Whitford, Volume 4


    Dear Mr. Whitford,

    I saw your show last night, but I’ll confess…I didn’t pay that much attention to it. You caught the bad guy! Yay!

    But just for a second, let’s go back and talk about something else. A little something called West Wing.

    Before any of my readers get over-zealous and ruin any story lines for me (Oh, Mary, I didn’t forget what you told me and I was waiting for it to happen the WHOLE TIME and then it did and I was still pissed.), I want to let everyone know that I just finished season three. So that means I still have seasons four, five, six, and seven to watch. Anything that happens in those seasons is supremely off-limits, even though this show has been off the air for four years. Got it? Good.

    Okay, so I just finished season three and I’ve discovered something. I don’t like Mary Louise Parker. Like…at all, but specifically not for Josh Lyman.

    Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. There’s really nothing you could have done about it then and there’s definitely nothing you can do about it NOW. Since the show is over. And has been for four years. I just wanted you to know that I don’t like it.

    I don’t know if we’re doing the radio show this week. @justdevin will be in town, but he’s not sure if he’ll be up for spending two hours in the studio with yours truly. You should come hang out with us sometime. I think it would be fun.

    Love and sloppy kisses,


  • Letters to Mr. Whitford, Volume 3


    Dear Mr. Whitford,

    I’ve decided on Mr. Whitford because this does feel like a Bridget Jones loves Mr. Darcy kind of thing. Also, I know too many Brads and Bradleys and I don’t want things getting confused. So I hope you’re okay with this.

    I have to say, your show is really growing on me. It doesn’t help that I’m watching West Wing at the same time (my, my, you are lovely in season three) (Do you and Donna ever get together? No! Don’t tell me.), so I have to alternate between you being witty, smart, awesome (if not a little…shitty to the women-folk, I’m sure you don’t mean it) Josh Lyman to uh…Dan Stark, but I’m getting used to it. I’m even starting to like the mustache.

    I’ll just apologize up front for the way I laugh at you running and jumping over kiddie pools and fences. Grace is not your middle name. Don’t worry, I run like a clumsy fool, too.

    I got some chocolate chips at the store this week, so I can make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. You know, if you came over for breakfast or something. (Other than that, I’m pretty much out of food, but I know a great little restaurant that I think you’d love. I think they’ll even let the mustache sit at the table with us.) I’ll even let you watch my radio show while we eat. You know, since I get to see you on the TV all the time. I’m ridiculous, though, and nowhere near as talented as you.

    Oh, but please let me know ahead of time that you’re coming over, because my apartment is a disaster and I don’t want you to see it like that. I won’t lie and tell you that I’m incredibly organized. I think you’ll find my messiness charming, though. Until I’m searching for my strapless bra, which I’ve thrown up onto the ceiling fan and I’m stomping around ranting and raving about how I can never find anything and you have to tap me on the shoulder and then point to the fan and my face turns red and I get embarrassed and then I’m late for work because you have to make it up to me. I don’t get embarrassed easily, though, so maybe it won’t be a problem. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen on our first date, m’kay?

    You should also know, I’m totally a dog-person. I love dogs. I had a dog for ten years. She was my BABY. I won’t tell you the sad story of why I no longer have her. We’ll save that for one night when I’ve had too much red wine. Warning: Red wine kind of makes me cry. Anyway, her name was Peanut and she was the best dog ever, aside from some whining issues. I hear you have a dog and she’s (he’s?) really cute. I’d love to meet her.

    I can’t help but notice that you haven’t called, Mr. Whitford. It was only a cup of coffee. Hey, I’ll even buy it! Of course, then I’ll probably expect you to put out. How much making out goes with a $4 cup of coffee? Several hours, I think. Unless I get lip burn from the mustache. Is it soft? Maybe you should consider some conditioner, if we’re going to be kissing and stuff.

    Not that kissing is required! Of course not. I mean, well, it may be foisted upon you, but I’ll try to keep my lips in check. I’m a good kisser, though. Just putting that out there. And no one will be filming it, so that takes some of the pressure off, right?

    That’s probably enough making a fool of myself for now, Mr. Whitford. You’re my favorite (but I wouldn’t kick Jason Statham out of bed, ifyouknowwhatImean).

    Love and kisses,


  • Letters to Bradley


    I think I’m going to make this a semi-regular thing, y’all. My life is so Bradley Whitford-centric right now, it’s unreal. I’m going to propose to @justdevin that our radio show ( @runsheet ) should maybe have the sub-title “The most Whitford-centric radio show in all the land.” He’ll have to agree, because it’s TRUE.

    Dear Bradley,

    Is it okay if I call you Bradley? I feel a little weird calling you Brad because I don’t know if you like that and Mr. Whitford seems a little formal (although, really, this is sort of a Bridget Jones loves Mr. Darcy kind of thing). Most of the time I full name you. Bradley Whitford. I don’t know, I’ll keep you posted. This time, I’m going with Bradley.

    Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I have to tell you something. I watched the series premiere of your new show “Good Guys” on FOX last Monday, and…meh. It was pretty bad. I’m not saying this to insult you. I promise. (And to be fair, I hadn’t seen the Pilot yet, so I didn’t really know what was going on.)

    You know how I hate the mustache, though. I mean, you probably don’t, but I’ve talked about it. And the mustache is basically a character in the show.

    What pains me most is how stupid they’ve forced you to act. What I’ve always loved about you is your wit and your smarts (and okay, let’s face it, your dimples). Watching this show makes me cringe a little. I understand that it’s the character you’ve been given, and I think you’re playing it well (since I’m cringing), but it’s just hard to watch.

    I’ve now seen the Pilot, which was infinitely better than the series premiere episode. And I will watch the show as long as you’re on it. I’m even thinking of reviewing it weekly for Red Carpet Crash. I’ll try not to say mean things.

    But enough about that.

    I’ve heard that you’re living in Dallas for a few months, while you continue filming Good Guys. Don’t worry, I won’t stalk you. But I propose this, Bradley: Let’s have coffee! (Or, you know, naked tequila body shots. Whatever you prefer.) Look, I’m really charming. I’m smart and funny and, uh, I give great back massages.

    It’s just a suggestion. Don’t make me whip out the adorable photo of me in the hat again. I’ll do it.

    Love and sloppy kisses,


  • I had something else planned, but then I found out that my imaginary boyfriend is in town and my head exploded.


    My Imaginary Boyfriend.

    Okay, so some of you may know (and some of you may not) that Bradley Whitford is my imaginary boyfriend. I know what you’re thinking right now. “Bradley…Whitford? But…why?” Well, shut your faces. I love him.

    And I suspect that he loves me, too. That’s probably why he agreed to do Good Guys (Series Premier tonight on FOX!), a cop show filmed in Dallas.

    No, I’m not a crazy stalker. At least, I don’t think I am.

    My crush began when a little show called Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip aired back in 2006. I know, I know. That’s pretty late in the game. And also, those blonde highlights were…atrocious. But he played the incredibly witty and lovable Danny Tripp. A crush was born. It was, however, overshadowed by the Chandler Bing crush I had been nursing for the last decade. I LIKE FUNNY, PEOPLE.

    And so I watched. And then, after only a season and a half, the show was canceled. I pulled myself together and moved forward. There was nothing else to do. Also, I didn’t know anything about a little show called West Wing (Oh, Josh Lyman, you give me the warm tinglies in my pretty parts). I just remembered that my dear Mr. Whitford had been the asshole in Billy Madison. So I watched that. And I still had a crush.

    Then, I found West Wing (this year). Thanks to the ever-so-charming Peter De Wolf. I’ve watched the first two seasons and now I’m pretty sure that Mr. Whitford and I are supposed to be together. Yes, this is ridiculous. But I love him. I will be so disappointed if I ever meet him and he turns out to be stupid. He plays smart so well.

    Mr. Whitford, please don’t be stupid, okay? For me.

    I know that most people my age (30), have crushes on the likes of uh…actually, I have no idea. Let’s say Brad Pitt or George Clooney. And while those men are fine, they don’t have Mr. Whitford’s panache.

    Yes, I just used “panache.” Deal with it. And while he may not do it for you, and he probably doesn’t have women throwing panties at him from the side of the road or anything, I think he’s great.

    This morning, as I was pulling up to work, I got a text message from @justdevin (My co-host for Runsheet Radio. Listen and watch Thursdays from 10:00 pm to midnight!) with a picture of my imaginary boyfriend and some other people from his show Good Guys. Cue head explosion.

    BECAUSE HE IS IN TOWN RIGHT NOW. And I didn’t realize what day or time. It’s not that I’m crying about it or anything, but I do feel a bit shouty. I mean, it’s obvious that he wants to meet me, right? Why else would he keep coming back to Dallas? WHY DIDN’T I WAKE UP IN TIME TO SHOWER THIS MORNING?


    Okay, my calm pants are now back on. Mr. Whitford, I’m sure if you just gave me a chance, you would find me charming and adorable. Oh, and I love dogs (I hear you have one). I’m not the skinniest girl in the world, and I will probably never be famous, but I can assure I’ll make you dinner and I’ll always get up to get you a beer. Let’s be friends. With benefits…that lead to dating and stuff. But no kids, okay? Unless you really want them. Then we can ask Angelina where she keeps getting hers, because my lady parts don’t really dig on the idea of being stretched to all oblivion just to birth a screaming thing that doesn’t speak English. See? When I put it that way, it doesn’t sound so awesome, right? I make really good pancakes. Also, you can keep the mustache, but I’m not happy about it.

    And see how cute I am?

    My glasses are really cute, too. Also, I sort of know how to sail. Just sayin'. If that's something you're interested in. Call me.