Since her menstrual issues ended five years ago, I have no idea.
Once she got pregnant during her time on WIll & Grace her body just never recovered. Nither did the show.
She's a cunt.
Her bile and gas have combined.
I second: She's a cunt.
She swallowed Harry Connick Jr's toupee.
Let me tell you about Deb Messing.
In early January, I had just returned to the States from Victoria, where I had been immunizing some of the indigenous tribes there in the grueling Australian midsummer heat. I'd been home barely a week when the earthquake struck Haiti, collapsing building and killing thousands, and within the day I was headed back to the airport â destination, Port-au-Prince.
Commercial flights were, you may remember, were unavailable for days afterward. I was standing in LAX, cursing my stupidity, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. âI noticed your bag,â she said (I was carrying my Medecins Sans Frontieres kit). âAre you trying to get to Haiti?â
The woman told me she had chartered a Cessna and hired a pilot skilled enough to land it in a small parking lot if necessary. âWe have one more seat,â she said, insisting I come with her.
There was a brief argument on the tarmac â apparently Anderson Cooper had been promised a seat, but my mysterious benefactor said medical help was more important and insisted I take his place. When I boarded the small plane, I found it filled with a veritable United Nations of aid workers, all as somber as I.
Once we were in the air, her warmth and humor quickly put an end to our initial shock. She introduced herself as âDebâ and â though she was obviously well-off â said the biggest regret of her life was dropping out of medical school just short of getting her degree. (She had supplied portable DVD players under each seat, and it wasn't until the flight was underway and I was engrossed in a double feature of her films âThe Womenâ and âThe Starter Wifeâ that I realized she was a film actress.)
The devastation in Haiti was beyond description. We had to land in Cite Soleil a few miles outside the city and take a Jeep down a rutted road, where we came across a roadblock of armed guerrillas that terrified us all, but Deb took them aside and conducted negotiations in perfect Haitian Creole. (The DVD players from the plane flight came in handy as barter, and they allowed us to pass.)
There were so many buildings collapsed in the city center we didn't know where to begin. We set to work in a pile of rebar and concrete, where a team of National Guardsmen was scaling the rubble with scent-rescue K-9s. When a dog would alert to someone trapped below, the National Guard would excavate the site, and if the patient showed any sign of life, the Guardsmen would carry them to us on a makeshift stretcher and we would begin triage there, in the middle of the filthy Avenue John Brown. (Deb was a great help here, too, holding the patients' hands and singing to them softly; her husky contralto was perfectly suited to âLa vie en roseâ and brought a tear to the eye of even some hardened rescuers.)
As the day went on, fewer and fewer patients were being brought to us and the rescue K-9s, sadly, were only uncovering corpses â and small ones, covered in concrete dust, their mouths open in a silent scream. We realized, to our horror, we were excavating a day care or elementary school.
I was setting the crushed leg of one old woman who was hysterical with shock, eyes rolling back in her head, babbling. I tried to hush her, but Deb stopped me:
Deb put her shell-like ear to the woman's mouth, inadvertently smearing her earring with blood, and listened to the old woman's wheezing Creole. The expression on Deb's face changed from puzzlement to incredulity to horror.
âStop!â she yelled to the Guardsmen atop the rubble. âThis woman's grandchild is buried up there!â she told them, pointing to a precipice of gnarled rebar and crumbling concrete.
The young Guardsman who was helping us was a towheaded Southerner, probably no more than eighteen. âWe can't, ma'am,â he told her.
Deb would have none of it. âShe says he's alive; she can feel his cries in her heart!â
âMa'am,â the Guardsman told us, âit's not safe up there, not even for the dogs.â
âThen I'LL do it!â
Quick as a wink and before any of us could stop her, Deb was scaling up the face of the rubble like a mountain goat, her Tevas barely finding purchase on one crumbling piece of cement before she shinnied to the next. (Later we would find that mountain climbing had been Deb's passion as a teenager.)
The Guardsmen stood mute and unbelieving, but the towhead found his voice: âRanger!â he cried. âHelp her!â
The biggest of the German shepherds raced after Deb, catching up to her just as she reached the spot the old woman had described. Deb and Ranger fell to digging, the animal with his paws and Deb with her hands, while we could only watch from the ground and pray.
After a few minutes, Deb staggered to her feet, holding a tiny object in her bloodied hands. âJean-Phillippe!â she yelled to us. âAnd he's alive! Il est vivant!â
The most hardened Guardsman could not hold back his tears as Deb descended from that pile of rubble containing so many corpses of the young, pressing the tiny miracle to her breast as Ranger led the way. When she finally reached the ground, I held out my hands for the baby, but Deb shook her head.
âHe needs her touch,â she said. âAnd she needs his.â
With that tender smile I had seen in âThe Starter Wife,â she placed the infant in the arms of his grandmother, where he worked his tiny fists for a moment before letting loose a cry in the destroyed streets of Port-au-Prince.
âThe kid's got some lungs on him,â said Red. âThat's the sound of a healthy baby.â
Deb put her finger to his lips. âNo,â she said. âThat's the sound of LIFE.â
As the other medics turned their attention to the blood and glass in Deb's feet (she had lost her Tevas on the downhill climb), I looked at the old Haitian woman on the stretcher. With one hand, she pressed her grandson to her heart; the fingers of the other hand worked an invisible rosary.
Her parched mouth moved in silent prayer, and I knelt next to her to dampen her cracked lips with a few drops of water from my canteen when she suddenly grabbed my sleeve with a strength belying her advanced years. At that moment, the blood left her face, and I knew we had lost her; she had held on in hopes of an angel saving the life of her grandson, and now that God had done His work, she was ready to meet Him.
I bent down to moisten her lips once again, and in a palsied wheeze, she uttered her last words:
âQui etait cette cunt?â
Her lover actor Will Chase has been married twice and doesn't have the best track record for commitment. Covered in nasty tats too. Wonder how Debra feels about those?
that abortion thing is a damned lie.
Like most sitcom stars, they had the role of a lifetime and never will again. That's why it behooves them to stick with it til the bitter end- no matter how they hate it. Because they'll never enjoy that kind of money/success again.
She definitely belongs in comedy. Perhaps now as the attractive yenta mother of a show's teen star? Sort of the role Debbie Reynolds played on W&G.
I guess she's not coke mom anymore.
[quote]Her lover actor Will Chase has been married twice and doesn't have the best track record for commitment.
Will Chase is just plain crazy.