Calling it a Day

Well, my darlings, I returned safely from Vegas with a crumpled annulment document in my right pocket and a tension headache from the booze...just like 70% of the other passengers. Nothing new there.

Tonight is the glorious holiday Halloween, as you hopefully know. I am exhausted and completely used up (thanks to an emotion-inducing workshop and a particularly boisterous sexual encounter), but I have one night of fight left in me. One night. One.

And it's going to be a doozy.

So, the nice people here at Blogspot have decided to keep their bloggers from posting pictures for some reason, so you can't see my costume yet. You also can't see the horrible wonderful things that wearing that costume makes me do...

...and I don't even have the enegy and wherewithall to write about it. Too bad.

More to follow, once this filly has gained enough order in her life to type.

snore. g

What Happens In Vegas...Goes Right on The Blog

I am in the shimmery, glittering city of Las Vegas right now. I am typing this wearing pasties and a showgirl's headdress I loaned out from a nice women named Vera, and no one at the Internet Cafe seems to notice.

I just had the first mullet sighting of the day, which I am very excited about. I have also done two shots of absynthe off an amputee's nub to start off my morning, and my dad got solicited by a hooker while eating his eggs Benedict.

Last night around 2, I came close to marrying a man named Dale who likes dirt bike racing to an unnatural degree and wears a trucker cap with a rooster drinking a beer on it. Luckily, my dad was able to pull himself away from the slot machines long enough to help me put my shirt back on and get me away from the wedding chapel.

I love this fucking town. Look out, Strip, here she comes! And mama wants steak and eggs this mornin'!

win. g

Caught in the Act

My head is about twenty seconds from splitting open and letting forth a torrent of blood and brains. My stomach is swaying to and fro, and I can feel the waves of nausea washing around inside me. I look helplessly at the remote, sitting on the counter, while I am three feet away on the couch. It might as well be in Abu Dhabi.

I am watching the Tyra Banks show.

Now, it's not Tyra herself that's getting me. I love Tyra. With her sass and beautiful eyes, I always find her refreshing, witty, and hip. And so fashionable!

It's the subject matter that's killing me. These folks have caught their lovers cheating on them, and their lovers are denying it. There's one man who opened his girlfriend's emails and saw a picture of her in the throes with another man AND a woman. Her response? "Well, I was drunk, and I didn't think it'd be a big deal."

There's a lady who finds articles of women's clothing in her man's house frequently. According to him, they're women from his work that need a place to crash. But would he be upset if he found men's boxers in his lady's house? Of course.

The list goes on and on. People are sitting in front of the nation, putting their poor communication skills on display. What is cheating and why do people not discuss this together? Are racy texts to an ex off limits? Ask! Can you kiss other people on the mouth without repurcussions? Inquire within! Is it actually going to take someone's Tab A entering your Slot B for there to be trouble in River City?!

It seems like we're missing a couple major classes in high school--one would be Reconciling a Bank Account, the other would be How to Not Fuck Up Your Relationships.

The best part came at the end of the show, when an uber-hipster tech chick presented a plethora of gadgets to catch cheaters in the act. There were air ionizers that had cameras in them, services that would record all conversations on their cell phones, and computer software that takes screen shots every second. They even bust out the boom box with a camera and mic!

Tyra was oohing and aahing over them while the men in the audience were booing. Uber-hipster tech chick turned to them and said, "These can be for you, too!" And I chuckled, because we all know that women are the target audience fror these things. We are the ones who assume that we need to manipulate in order to get the truth. Because we have been known not to tell the truth, we assume our men won't, either. What women don't know is that men usually lie when they know what they have to say will get them in trouble. Women turn men into manipulators--They don't start out that way. It's not in their wiring (if they're healthy).

All of a sudden, people's word means nothing. As uber-hipster tech chick said so matter-of-factly, in her wise cashmere cardigan of power, "Every relationship has problems." And instead of having an adult heart-to-heart with our significant other, we end up creating an intimate connection with our credit card and the stock boy at Best Buy.

ugh. g

Ella Esta Aqui

I was laying in front of the big picture window, basking in the gloom and cuddling up to myself. Suddenly, out of nowhere, not unlike a mack truck, came inspiration. She arrived, kicking ass and taking names, and in an instant, the option to sleep was gone.

Look the fuck out, my darlings. I am on a roll and I am loving it. I wanted you to know, since her absence is one of the reasons that blog entries have not been coming to me lately.

That's all changed now. THe glove has been thrown down, and I am accepting the challenge.

This is when it feels good to be an artist.

olio. g

Hot Dog Hats for the Feminine Soul

I have been immersed in the world of editing, which has come to a screeching halt. Conchata is sick again, but this time it's only my editing software that's affected. I put in a call to the Mac Man (crossing my fingers that he'll let me pay him in hugs) and am now officially puttering to counteract the concern that is seeping into all my tissues.

Puttering, in case you didn't know, is essential to the feminine consciousness. We operate in a state of what has been referred to as "diffuse awareness," which means that we are aware of many things at any one given time.

To give an example, right now, my mind is jumping between these things at a break-neck pace:
-Editing for a friend
-Editing for my personal project
-My Halloween costume, and exactly how much I should "glow"
-My messy kitchen counter
-My dwindling monetary resources
-Which songs I should sing at karaoke
-The fact that I haven't eaten for awhile
-The beckoning laundry
-My man's belt buckle
-My sister's boy problems
-Whether or not the whole family will reunite for Christmas

The list goes on. Women's minds zap from one subject to another at every moment of consciousness. Keep in mind that we're thinking this while using our hands to integrate even more thoughts into the mix. I am typing, refluffing my hair, moisturizing, answering the phone, proofreading, listening to the Cosby show on TV, and biting my lip all while writing this blog! Gents, this is why sometimes the things that come out of our mouths make no sense. There's a lot happening in this oh-so-ladylike package.

Anyway, puttering is a result of this awareness. Items in our household actually have voices, telling us to "Finish completing me for work!" or "Move me over here to improve the feng shui of the room!" So we putter. We flit from thing to thing, like a graceful task-completing hummingbird, polinating some things and ignoring others, then moving to another flower entirely before the job is even done.

It can be frustrating being a woman.

Anyway, I feel like my writing even needs puttering today. I want to tell you about the shoe rack I purchased today for less than 10 dollars from Ikea (that is filling the Treehouse with a lovely cedar smell), and the confusion I felt when I discovered something for sale called "glow dust" on the internet that apparently is the key ingredient for glowy paint?...oh! And I almost forgot to tell you that I saw a hat today that consisted of a snug-fitting pillbox hat with a lovely, plush hot dog perched regally on top of it. With both ketchup and mustard, if you must know.

I am rejoicing in my inability to focus today, because it is what my womany soul needs. I am not getting crap done, thanks to my hinky Final Cut, and I'm not accomplishing much anywhere else, but dammit, I am successful at being a chick.

femme. g

Good Idea, Jenni

I agree with you, my lovely bride-to-be. I am going to tell stories about exes like Juno does. Here goes...

This one time, I broke up with this guy who had an unnatural obsession with Stone Temple Pilots, although that's not why we broke up (I was 13 years old and bored). When I visited his school six months after the breakup to see a play, he knew I was coming and had asked all of our mutual friends to tell me he had been in an accident and had amnesia.

The combination of the blank look on his face when I offered a nonchalant "Hi" combined with 3 people telling me that he had been hit by a bus sent my young HellCat mind into a Drama Queen Frenzy.

I went out to the field to cry a little and found my friend Owen avoiding gym class. He asked me what was wrong and I explained. Then he said, "Jake wasn't in an accident. He thinks you still like him. But don't tell anyone I told you."

I thanked him for telling me and walked indignantly back to my school, feeling wounded but superior.

We only spoke once after that, when I was 17 and saw him in a bagel shop. I relayed the entire story to my friend Chadley, and he immediately walked up to Jake and said, "Hey, man. We all go through hard times. And since you couldn't even remember your friends, you must have been really fucked." And then he did the "There's something on your shirt" thing with his finger, and sure enough, Jake looked down. Chadley flicked him on the nose and we laughed at him while he pretended not to know who I was.

And then he died.

knock on wood. g

Juno Goes Green

Last night my spiky-haired head was filled with visions of militant muppets from Muncie rapping, tee shirts for Samoans that might be a full square yard in size, and that chick from Joan of Arcadia wearing fabulous suede boots with her jeans tucked into them.

It was a really fun night, and it wasn't a manifestation of my amazing imagination, it actually happened. I was out in Santa Monica at a great little show called "Green" that is all about people performing whatever they want onstage and rejoicing in free speech. You know how those things have very distinct pros and cons--sometimes you hear some great stuff that changes the way you see life, and other times you're forced to sit through poorly written prose about that time, 15 years ago, when the poet fell off the merry-go-round in preschool. Last night was no exception.

When it ended I wanted more. I made the rounds, meeting people, shaking hands, making small talk. That's when I ended up next to Juno from Beetlejuice. Remember her? She was Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin's case worker? Yeah.

It wasn't actually her, but the resemblance certainly was there. Tiny old woman with big eyes, made everyone generally uncomfortable with the raised volume of her random declarations, wearing an "Impeach Cheney First!" tye-dyed shawl. One of those. But she wasn't mean, just old. You know how that works?

As I was escaping to my car, I had nearly stepped off the curb when I heard that voice that sounded like an economy car rolling over a soft shoulder on the highway address me. "How do you become a film editor?" she asked.

I told her that I went to school as a film major at UT Austin (which prompted her to show me her shawl). She asked me if I was good at cooking, to which I responded, "I try real hard, but I'm not much for presentation."

"When is your birthday?" I should have known this question was next. Of course an older lady who wears tye-dye and reads poetry at an open mic is into astrology. Of course.

I told her I was an Aquarius and that my birthday is January 24th. She said that her best friend had a birthday on January 23rd (like you, RobMag!) and that we were "extraordinary people." I thanked her and was about to step off the curb again when she continued.

"She is a lawyer. She used to be an artist, but then she began dating this man who was a lawyer. He told her that she should be one, too, so he put her through law school. She worked and worked, and it became more and more apparent to her that he was never going to marry her. She took the Bar. Passed it on the first try for 5 states. Five!"

I stepped back from the situation for a moment and saw this strange little woman standing before me, eyes wide, palm raised high above her head with her fingers outstretched to indicate "Five!" states. I thought the story was over, but she was just beginning. There was sex waiting for me at home and I was getting antsy, but I didn't want her to strangle me with her shawl. I kept listening.

"After she passed the bar, she packed her bags and moved out of his apartment. Left him, just like that. And now she's a lawyer here in California, and very successful."

I was leaning in, trying to figure out what my response to this story was supposed to be, and just as I was about to say, "Hooray, Aquarius! You go, girl!" she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

"And then he died."

And Santa Monica's Juno turned on her heel and walked away. Just like that. That was the end to the story.

I stepped into the street. As my foot hit the pavement, I heard her scream "Son of a bitch!" at the sky, and I imagined that she was shaking her fist at him in heaven. I just laughed and laughed while the balance returned to the force and she tried to persuade one of the kids from the open mic to give her a ride.

see you next week. g

Captain's Log

Some editors work overnight, getting pieces done while all the other spokes on the wheel of production sleep. They toil away until the wee hours of the morning, relishing their quiet time spent in dark rooms filled with gleaming electronic equipment. Editors who work like this also seem to think that drinking gallons of coffee or Red Bull to stay awake is okay, and that constantly stuffing themselves with greasy take-out doesn't hurt either.

This is why editors don't get any attention at the Oscars--they look terrible. They're all pale and doughy with terrible complexions. Consider Thelma Schoonmaker, who is Marty Scorcese's editor of many years. If you pay closer-than-average attention to film, you Might know who she is. I assert that even this glimmer of recognition stirring in your brain is a result of Thelma actually looking like a normal person. But I digress. My point is that most editors working overnight are both getting their work done and killing themselves at an accelerated rate.

I don't operate like that. The HellCat cannot work very well past 8PM, and even that's a reach. This is because my body has always chosen to wake up early and go to bed at a decent hour, and I need a couple of hours at the end of the night to unwind. I can't escape this need, as it seems to have been with me over two decades.

As a youth, I didn't even know that this thing some people called "sleeping in" was actually a real concept. I just thought they were insane people walking among us, spouting insane-person ramblings. Like the Manson family.

My body thinks that 6PM is quitting time. At that point in a day, I need to be in my car on my way to see a movie or grab some dinner with friends. Case closed.

This has all kind of gone out the window with freelance. I am fully in control of my schedule, and as long as something is done by its due date, I'm all set. It's been freaking me out, since I can take a workout break, or see just how wacky those reality TV stars are being midday. It's wild. I have noticed, however, that even if I don't work much during the day, I still can't work at night.

To make up for lost time, I work early in the morning. And, to supplement the Treehouse Dance Party, it seems as though I have started the HellCat Editing Party. I have a new hard drive with a blue light that shines like a brilliant Editing Beacon, guiding me through the rough-cut storm. Add to that a new obnoxious firewire cable with a clear cover, and you have yourself a precious little blinking addition to the family.

I'm trying to get some editing done here, and the TreeHouse looks like a goddamn discotheque. Blue lights blinking and flashing all at different intervals. They turn red when "thinking" to add some spice to the set up. I can barely get any work done, I'm so distracted.

This is where I notice that life has really taken a strange turn for me in the past several months. I am now editing while aboard the Starship Enterprise. (insert Next Generation joke here)

star date. g

Airing It

Gone are the days that I waste eight full hours doing several weeks worth of laundry in a public facility. I have forgotten the fear that is spawned from pondering just how unmentionable the unmentionables were in the washer's past. No clothes go AWOL mysteriously, and I don't have to suffer under the unflattering laundry room lighting. Yes, laundry facilities and the horrors within them are but a memory now, since my sister is an adult and has her own washer in the property we inhabit.

I was putting these machines to use today while I was home working. These days, I do my laundry every couple of weeks instead of once a month. The loads are small to medium, and I am convinced that my clothes are getting cleaner and I am not punishing them with long stints in the dryer. We all win here in the Hollywood Hills, where homes have private laundry rooms and the Mexicans are only around once a week to do the lawns.

Anyhoo, I was finishing off the last of it tonight. I saved my hoodie for last, since I like to wash it gently and by itself. Oh sure, laugh if you want, oh cynical one, but sometimes people care about material goods in their life, and this is my Rosebud. The hoodie is a jolly maroon color, and is emblazoned with my pimp name ("Devious Honey"). It is the one thing I would take with me to a desert island, as it is the source of all my feminine wiles.

I put the hoodie in the washer and added my oh-so-environmentally-safe detergent (that I don't think cleans anything, but instead gives it a nice patchouli and corn chip smell). Gently and with quiet reverence, I turned the knob to Delicate and tossed in my Downy Ball. I smiled at the "sploosh" noise and continued to stare dreamily into the washer.

My calm quickly turned to disgust. As my hoodie swirled around the washer, I noticed the water was turning a very unpleasant brown color.

'I just washed that damn thing,' I thought to myself as I grimaced and shielded my eyes from the darkening water. 'Oh environment, why hast thou forsaken me?'

I am not scared to admit this in a public forum. That water was totally goddamn nasty. I am a clean person, and that hoodie was dirty. Dirtier than Christina Aguilera. Dirtier than the stagnant pools of water in foreign lands used to make special ebola-chlamydia-water-buffalo-feces cocktails for orphans to drink first thing in the morning. That water was really dirty.

I feel gross now.

Before this moment, I took pride in being a little dirty in a sexual way. Now that notion sickens me a little. I feel like I ought to carry around a spray bottle filled with bleach, spraying everything from coins to doorknobs to clothes in a department store. And no more spankings!

I think this is how obsessive-compulsive disorder begins.

way of the future. g

Judge Not, Lest I Judge Your Ass Right Back

I should have been sleeping, tidying up the Treehouse, or cleaning the fridge. There were a million other things that were worth doing at the moment too, but in the end, they all lost.

I needed ice cream.

I went to the grocery store and steered myself in the direction of the frozen food aisle. I had just replenished my produce that morning at the Farmer's Market, so there was nothing I needed to pick up. Making a beeline for the prize was I.

I studied my choices carefully. I couldn't decide between Chocolate Fudge Brownie or Strawberry, so I picked up both. As my fingers started to absorb the frost from the containers, I considered making other purchases to take the attention away from the ice cream. Despite previous assertions to the contrary, I am completely positive that check-out cashiers totally pay attention to what your're forking money over for. Then they tell stories while they're on break. I know for certain that when I buy 3 packs of condoms and a large bottle of Vitamin C that this alone raises their eyebrows for at least the next seven minutes.

Anyway, I decided against camoflauging my dessert. 'Loud and proud Grae, loud and proud,' I said to myself as I joined the ever-growing line.

As I stood there, fingers numbing more and more with each passing second, I focused on the tabloid headlines. Angelina and Jen are at it again, Nick Lachey caught with another woman, etc. I shurgged my shoulders, and reluctantly threw one on top of my two containers. I focused on going to a zen place and ignoring the tortoise-like speed of the cashier. It was then that I felt a sudden Code Red Alert go off in my Girl Control Room. This is one that is triggered by the narrowed eyes and vicious thoughts of others, usually unhappy women, when they are sizing you up. But where was it coming from?

I ascertained quickly that it was actually the man standing in front of me. He had a shaved head, and was quite muscular. His purchases consisted of lots of produce, soy products, and Luna bars. A health nut no doubt, and we would have shared a look of satisfaction from our similar tastes had I been buying what I normally do. This time, though, we were on the same planet in different worlds. I noticed that he was regarding my ice creams and poor excuse for a reading device with disdain. He actually rolled his eyes skyward and sighed a little.

He was silently judging me.

I was shocked at first. Was this Lillith Fair-attending, hiking boot-wearing, cue ball-looking motherfucker asserting that I was lame? That notion was so hilarious that I started laughing. He quickly looked back at me, totally embarassed, and I just kept snickering. Then I stopped, thinking that he needed to be punished for setting off my Code Red alarm. I sniffed and tried to make it sound wet. He ignored me. I sniffed again and he looked back.

Unbenownst to me, I was about to give the finest performance of my life. Look for my name atop the Oscar nominees this year.

"You ever had your heart broken?" I said ruefully.

"Uh..." he took a miniscule step backward, not knowing if I was reaching out for help or threatening to actually break his heart.

"Like, one day you're working out all the time, eating apples, thinking you're the one, and the next, you're buying two cartons of Ben and Jerry's ice cream that you know you'll have eaten in less than two hours?"

He just stared at me openmouthed.

"And the only thing that can keep you from wanting to hurt yourself or perhaps others is reading a stupid gossip magazine?"

Still staring.

"Naw, you probably don't know what I mean. You eat so healthy. And that polar fleece is so stylish."

Although visibly shaken, he paid for his groceries with lightning quick speed.

"But even so, it's still great to be in love."

He grabbed all of his plastic bags in one swoop and ran out of the Ralph's. He didn't look back once.

Serves him right. Maybe next time he won't be so quick to assume that people who eat fatty, artery-clogging, delicious dessert products with a side of yellow journalism are all assholes. They might be liars, but not assholes.

paparazzi-tastic. g

Is This Really Happening?

I was forced to rise earlier than I was planning to this morning, thanks to a 745 AM phone call from my beloved sister. That, unfortunately, couldn't have come at a worse time, since I did some serious drinking last night and needed to sleep it off a little.

I threw my legs over the side of the bed and scratched my head in confusion. Where was I? Who was I? Did I really see Christopher Lloyd last night in the parking lot? And did he really glance at me suspiciously, as though he knew what I had just done?

Too many mysteries at once. I picked up my latest fun read which describes in glorious detail how to get on a reality TV show (appropriately titled "How to Get on Reality TV" by my buddy Matthew Robinson). I have to start the morning with something that makes me laugh, or that is deliciously gossipy. The novel about codebreaking has to wait until at least 11 AM.

Anyway, I was picturing myself getting on the next Survivor, and trying to figure out which bugs I would and wouldn't eat if forced. I spent about 20 minutes pondering this, and was comfortable with the idea of eating a spider but refusing a locust. Then I realized that I was still very, very drunk.

Unable to focus on one topic, my mind skittered around errands that I had to run, and what I had to do to straighten up the Treehouse. I made mental notes of things I had to pick up at the store that I immediately forgot. I picked things up off my floor with the intention of returning them to their actual homes, but just left them some other place they didn't belong instead. I started to make my bed, but got distracted by a vicious itch on my big toe. You get the idea.

I sobered up relatively quickly and began my journey to deposit checks, buy snacks, and purchase DAT tapes. Good times. Although there were slight stumbles along the way, I managed to complete my tasks and even come home and fix breakfast. But now, on the Sirius radio, I could swear that Tony Orlando is singing to a woman named Candida about how life could be sweeter, and they could make it together, etc.

Let me get this straight: Tony Orlando wants YEAST to come with him where the "air is fresh and clean?" Hate to break it to you, Tone, but anywhere Candida goes, it is NOT fresh and clean. Candida makes everyone cranky, because women are in pain and can't stop scratching their nether regions, and it makes their sexual partners pissy because their contact is severely limited. So when you say you're "tryin' hard to win first prize," do you mean First Prize in the Not-Getting-Laid contest?

'Cause you'd be a shoo-in.

Anyway, the confidence gained from my productive morning is wavering. Is any of this really happening? Am I still drunk? Is there really a song that sings the praises of Candida, or was it just meant to be a slam to Dawn?

I guess I'll never know.

wake me up before you go-go. g

The Answer is Clear

This is my favorite time of year. As I see it, we've got an entire run of mirth and merriment from October all the way to my birthday in late January. We are teetering on the brink of Super Happy Fun Time, and I take it very seriously.

The first thing necessary to welcome this season is to find a Halloween costume.

Yesterday I found myself trolling the streets of Hollywood, between the big, screaming, neon-y capitalism of the Hollywood and Highland complex and where the boulevard starts to get depressing. You know the part where it's just as dirty as its western side, but without stars in the sidewalks? You know that stretch of land? I call it the "Pimps Up, Strippers Down" Hamlet.

I was wandering up and down the boulevard, wearing clean American Apparel clothing and mary jane shoes. I was admittedly ill-prepared for the outing, because if I had forseen the field trip, I would have worn my "I Love Sluts" tee shirt and caked some dirt on my face to act as camoflauge.

Anyway, I was searching for a Hollywood boulevard staple. They are ubiquitous on that street; all I needed to do was make a selection. I saw them on display in many a window, some with diamonds, some with bows. Some had a little color to them, others had fish in them. But unfortunately, the majority of Clear Heels that I found on that street were just too fucking tall.

I am 6 feet tall, my darlings. Although proppping myself atop 7" stripper shoes might seem like a good idea, it usually scares the shit out of regular men, and makes the gay ones on La Cienega think that you're their bottom for the night, which is not what I am going for. Plus, I hate being crippled by my footwear. I usually last 30 minutes before I'm found in the shadows ripping the evil sons-of-bitches off my feet and attempting to hurl them in the nearest garbage receptacle. And 50 bucks is lost.

I couldn't manage to find a pair of respectable 4" clear heels to save my life. I began to get frustrated. My pace began to quicken and my face crumpled into a slight frown of determination. I considered what this meant. You would think that strippers need a break once in a while, that they would use a lower clear heel as their everyday shoe, but no. I guess they always just wander around in 7 goddamn-inch heels at their sons' fourth birthday party. I suppose it's normal for them to perch high above the rest of the population when they're at the Washington Mutual. Perhaps strippers are so used to their position above the tree-line that they can never come down to be with the rest of us, in sneakers and flip-flops.

Maybe this is why strippers are better than regular people. Just like the British.

My patience ran out at the same time my meter did. I got in my car, flustered, and I wished that I could have some hot shoes to wear the next time I had sex with my boyfriend.

Whoops. Overshare.

I will continue the search, my darlings, and major shoe manufacturers will feel the weight of my wrath upon them. If anyone thinks they can dictate how high the heel of my stripper shoe is, they're dead wrong. And on the sweet, victorious day I find the shoe I'm looking for, I will thrust my fist in the air and declare it a victory for people everywhere. Sure, our lives are all touched by disastrous fires and hurricanes and poverty and hatred, but the perfect Halloween costume can bring everything back into perspective.

boo. g

The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

Well, my darlings, it is 5:15 AM on Wednesday, and I find myself here, unable to go back to sleep. Yesterday was not the most stellar day by any regard--I managed to get a few key things done, and I even got to watch some great TV on DVD, but I still ended up going to bed frustrated. It was early, but my eyes were tired. I was having trouble reading and writing, and what else is there to do when you're feeling conflicted? Nothing, that's what. I yanked the covers over me, frowned, and entered a deep slumber.

I had a nightmare.

I dreamt that we were filming this project I'm working on, and we were shooting in my childhood home. It was 6 AM, I hadn't made coffee, and all of a sudden, people started showing up that were not talent or crew. These people, all ones from different parts of the History of Grae, thought they should show up to help. Some were friends from my old job at the theater, one girl was from my high school basketball team, and I recognized another as some actor who played 'Thug #1" on television once.

The Mighty G appeared, complete with strange hair-do and a red shirt that I remember made me uncomfortable. I asked her quickly if she was comfortable getting rid of these yahoos that were quickly filling my kitchen (which, by the way, looked the same as it did pre-remodeling about 13 years ago). She said yes, so I managed to schmooze each one of the kids out except the Thug. I put my hand on his and told him "Listen, I have nothing but respect for you, but this is my fucking house. I don't want to have to mad-dog you." And all of a sudden, my dad was by my side, and he was giggling. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was excited that I had used the phrase "mad-dog," although he didn't know what it meant.

One of the talent looked up and said, "No coffee, and only carrots to eat? This sucks." and I woke up, sick to my stomach.

Here I am, unable to calm down. Flashes of things that have gotten under my skin this week are assaulting me. I cannot manage to ward them off. I think I might go to the 6:45 yoga class at my gym that I am never able to wake up for, but I am concerned that it is too advanced, for I am but a novice. Worry, worry, worry. Nothing comes easy to me when I've had a nightmare.

rest easy. g

Dancin' Machine (Watch Me Get Down)

The entire week the HellCat has been suffering from intense tension headaches. And, in the tradition of those who know maybe a little too much about their bodies, she fears the worst for her adrenal glands and her taurine levels.

I have been attempting to figure out how to get enough of what I need to keep my body from switching gears into survival mode. It ain't easy to figure out how to right this wrong, because my mind feels fine. Perhaps my thoughts are a little more fast and furious than usual, but otherwise, it's business as usual in my cranium. The kicker is that my body is showing signs of extreme pressure.

What could this mean? Well, it just might indicate that I am always this stressed, and because of this I am fooled into thinking it's normal. My body is exhausted and is acting out. Perhaps there is a land of candy cane joy and lollipop dreams in store for me if I calm down a little...a world where scarce work and sputtering personal relationships have little impact on my time with the Slip N Slide of Happiness. Is that what life could be like? Puffy clouds to catch you when you fall, and massages everyday?

Hmm.

Anyway, in the meantime, meditation doesn't seem to be hitting the spot, and I am running out of Excedrin. But the HellCat is HellBent on being proactive, so I decided this morning to get rid of my stress permanently. How, you ask?

I decided to hold the first official Treehouse Dance Party.

Friday morning I woke up, psyched from a great concert, some great texts, a fast-approaching visit from my college roomie, and the promise of hot lovin' later on. But how to revel in my joy? I thought about it, and it dawned on me that I don't let music do much work for me anymore. Rarely do I turn it on and let it seep into my bones, repairing whatever damage was done that day. I used to have time to do things like that, and I theorized that its absence from my life might be one of the reasons I'm having trouble.

Newly loaded onto Conchata Lawrence was the new Kanye West album. LeezyB played the first single for me recently, and it is, in a word, hot. So I turned up my stereo and waited for the magic to happen. All of a sudden, my feet were moving. My hips were shaking. And my lips were smiling.

I felt so much better after unabashedly shaking my ass for five minutes that I have decided to make it a tradition.

Here are the rules. When one wakes up in the Treehouse, one must remain in their jammies, whatever they might be. They turn on their favorite dancing song and go crazy. It's not about looking good or exhibiting your fly dance skills. It's about letting the notes have their way with you, recharging your soul and setting you free (as an aside: These are two very different styles of dance, in case you weren't aware. When I am in the club, trying to look hot and probably attract a man, I dance one way. When I am in the Treehouse letting go of the existential smog clogging up my bod, I dance another. One involves clear heels, the other involves a lot of funny faces and arm-flailing).

I have decided that this is a great way to rid myself of all this tension, and it makes me laugh really hard, which accomplishes the same thing.

Also, please note that sometimes, if some extra silliness is needed, I put on my ear flap hat. Pictures forthcoming.

I think the next step is starting a Coalition of Dance Machines, where people who are concerned about the quality of life for one and all get together and make mix tapes for everyone's dancing pleasure. We will hold fundraisers to help those who need dancing shoes, and help others start Dance Parties in their homes. Join the revolution! Skip with me now...

she ain't messin' with no broke...g