Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Strangely enough, the last blog was posted and I got a long-overdue phone call. Someone has just removed themselves from this whole deal. I guess, technically, I have one less thing to worry about now. They're gone, bringing no relief. Just sighs.

Apparently this means that this is a magic blog. When you request something here and toss it up to the CyberHeavens, you will get what you really need. So go ahead and ask, my darlings. Good night and good luck.

The Darker Side of Sears

The Treehouse is clear of all guests. No one expects me to be the Ambassador of Goodwill anymore. I got to snuggle with my man and fill up on kisses. The neck thing is clearing up. Things are looking up.

Unfortunately we've hit on the week where Grae's hormones are like "Guess what, sucka? We're gonna fuck wit'cha because we CAN! True that." My hormones are ganstas with much bling, and they carry their nines around with a cavelier attitude. And they're out on the streets again.

I rose this morning from my bed, overflowing with pillows, and I was assaulted by images of the people I knew once who don't want to be in my life anymore. Sadly, there are a larger number than I would like. They have nothing but lovely comments to leave on other people's myspace page. They've taken pictures and posted them online, smiles bright and glowing on my screen. Their boyfriends tell me that they're fine, but that they want nothing to do with me.

"No one else got hit? What's the deal?"

I take half the responsibility, sure. But why can't we work it out? Can't we make 5-minute fudge together and change my plaster flamingo's clothes to his Santa Suit? How about we write emails to each other and act like normal human beings?

Don't get me wrong. What I've got is enough. But that nagging feeling has taken root in my soul. I dream about this elite group often. I should be enjoying mint tea and snuggling up to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" or "Barbed Wire." But I can't fully make it there when my mind starts spinning like this.

We all stopped speaking for different reasons. It was the best thing to do at the time. But it's getting to be time to either write it off forever and be pleasantly surprised by a decades-later reunion, or strike up the band and get to dancin'.

I would like to spend today focusing on what I've got. No time to wax nostalgic and let it get me all up in a frenzy. This is the season of being thankful and loving each other...so I need to just put on my fuzzy robe and meditate on the blessings. Everything else works out the way it's supposed to.

snuggle. g

And You, Brutus?

My conscious mind isn't aware of any high amount of stress present. But my body has sent me some telegrams to let me know that I am, in fact, a little tense. The notices have been in the form of an almost-cold sore on my mouth, little to no sleep, and a decrease in my desire to talk. And now this.

As I rose from bed this morning, entirely too early, I was pulling myself up and I twisted around to see what time it was. My neck spasmed. I cannot move my head now, for fear of setting off shooting pains down my right side. This is not fun. And now I will be punished for my weakness, because I missed church AND brunch, and am not running on enough sleep to be charming about it.

So I took a Vicodin.

It has made me absolutely care less about anything. Don't know what flight or time my boyfriend's flight is coming in tomorrow. Not sure if they're back from breakfast yet. When was that meeting we had scheduled at ESPN? Is my foot on fire?

I don't give a shit.

I don't care that my sister acts like she will shrivel up and die in front of us if we don't like her pumpkin pie and compliment her on the clean house. It doesn't matter that my dad will pout because I benched myself for the morning's religious and eating ceremonies even though he is 73 years old and completely capable of reading his own bible and cutting his own meat. And my mom? Don't care that she doesn't believe I pulled a muscle. Guess what, ma? I HAVE HAD SEX WITH A MAN! More than one, in fact! We don't just kiss and finish up with some discussion of who we're voting for in the next election! Deal with it! Has she ever done it from behind? I doubt it.

I just don't care about anything anymore. And it feels so good.

But strangely, my new best friend Vicodin has made my body feel floaty and free from Thanksgiving Nerves, but my neck still hurts. I just don't pay as much attention. Is this what it's for? I never take pills if I can help it, I got these from a friend along with some marijuana pills. I figured the Vicodin was a safer bet since I don't want to eat Cheetos and burn incense, which is what I always do when I am high.

GUESS WHAT, MOM? I get high, too! Not all the time but occasionally when the situation calls for it! Like when watching Mr. Show or going to movies with my hairdresser!

Fuck this. I'm going to go prop myself somewhere and pretend that I'm not excited the holiday is over. I am going to relish my new desire to be like the drunk aunt that everyone is scared of inviting to family events for fear of what she'll say in front of the kids. It hasn't been a bad experience, these past few days...but boy does Vicodin/sodium pentithol set your soul free.

in vicodin veritas. g

Happy Day, Turkey

We are in hour 19 of the Drake Reunion: Phase 1. So far, my mom has mentioned how much she loves her Magic Bullet blender three times, which she always describes as "cuter than a little bug in a rug," "faster than you can say 'Uncle'," and "costs an arm and two legs." Overall, I believe she has fallen in love with it and will be serving my dad with divorce papers as soon as she gets the latest Magic Bullet model in white for the commitment ceremony.

My cousin has barely said five words, but when she does, they are always funny, eloquent, and interesting (just like her mom). I like her and am glad she lives close. My uncle, however, talks a lot and says things like, "Let's all thank Jesus for the pilgrims before we eat this pineapple upside down cake," even though we were eating cornbread at the time. He thanks Jesus for everything from a Broncos touchdown to the Cinderella mug he drinks his coffee from because he is a minister. And also crazy.

My sister has managed to scold my mom for using paper towels and even went so far as to call her a tree killer. I also realized that she is constantly seeking approval and attention, and she believes she can achieve these things by pointing out the bargain prices she paid for EVERYTHING ("This couch is from the 1930's and I only paid $400 for it!" "And these plates? $30 for a 10 piece set!"). Strangely enough, she never does this when the family is not around, and I can't figure out the thought process that leads her to believe that her ability to buy things will win her love from large groups.

Thank Christ for the bathtub with jets in it. I am truly thankful for that today.

But the good news is that the Treehouse is the official Turkey Cooking Site, and I am writing this while inhaling the magnificent fumes from the cooking bird. This is nice. A breeze, a house full of wackos downstairs, and moisturized hands. Gotta count your blessings.

too many. g

Could Be Raining

Well, my darlings, it has been a full evening. Although it is only 10:17PM, I feel spent and ready for a nice night's sleep. Here is a brief rundown of the infamous, much-anticipated Dinner with the Drakes.

-11: minutes that my mom spent deciding what glass of wine to order

-9: number of times Pablo Honey, the Mighty G and I could mention the word "rabbit," "dying," or "rabbit dying" without anyone thinking it was weird

-6: times we said "nigga" in the car on the way home

-5: times my mom mentioned the curly black hair she found in our appetizer sampler

-3: minutes we spent laughing at the fact that my sister (at age 13) TP'd her own house to appear "cool" and "popular"

-3: instances where the Mighty G found it appropriate to say the word "fuck"

-2: songs my mom sang, including "Cielito Lindo" and "I Love Paris in the Springtime"

-2: glasses of White Zin that my mom downed in less than an hour

-2: times I got to yell "You never loved me" at the top of my lungs in the restaurant and get fellow restaurant-goer John Stamos to feel bad for me, even though we were just funnin'

-1: attempt to steal my mom's purse while making devil horns and feeling her up at the same time (see picture above)

-1: oral sex joke that went "unnoticed"

-1: drunken stumble on the sidewalk that made a complete stranger compliment my mom on her comedic timing...even though she wasn't kidding

All in all, I would say it was a success. I am officially allowed to play with Pablo Honey and the Mighty G again...they have been given the Drake Stamp of Approval, which is really more like a hex that involves the blood of chickens and goat entrails and stuff. Less of a stamp.

my niggas. g

Jump into my Nighmare, the Water is Warm

The holiday season is officially upon us. And this year, the Drake family will all be in the same place for the first time in several years...maybe even a decade. Who knows; all these repressed memories make it difficult to distinguish time.

The patriarch and matriarch of the clan arrive tomorrow. I figured that I would complete my morning routine--go to the gym, take a shower, watch some telelvision or write, and Boom! They would be there, needing hugs and tours of the house. My email, however, had to break the news that they are actually arriving at the fucking crack of dawn, and will arrive at the house just two Advil past the fucking crack of dawn.

There will be no gym. No writing. No masturbation. Nothing. Maybe not even showers.

Off to a great start.

I have been instructed to meet my mother at the door with a pack of American Spirit cigarettes (mild) and "something cute on." It's important to distinguish that the things my mom thinks are cute is very different from what my boyfriend's standards are. As a result, I will not be greeting her in nothing but my birthday suit and a multicolored scarf wrapped around my neck. No, I'm not going to suffer through that snafu again. This time, it will be trousers and a respectable-but-flirty V neck shirt. With the perfect, cancer-causing accessory in my hand and a lighter in my pocket.

The only lighter I own is one of those flame-throwery things that you light grills with. I use it for my incense and candles. Think she'll mind?

Great start.

Dinner will consist of the 'rents, my sis, me, my boyfriend, and the Mighty G. I like to think it will sound something like this.

Mom: Well, I am so pleased to meet you two. Do either of you have a lighter to set my cigarette aflame, instead of this innapropriate death machine my daughter supplied me with because she obviously wants her share of the will sooner rather than later?

Pablo Honey: Oh, Mrs. Drake, allow me. I would be more than happy to help you kill yourself slowly if it makes me look like a better, more suitable person to date your daughter.

Dad: That's very kind of you, son. Just don't think this means you'll get to spend the night! No sexual intercourse in our house. Period. Even if our daughter is what you kids like to call "a hottie."

Mighty G: I'm Mexican, you know. Does anyone here speak Spanish?

Sister: What did she say? Seriously. What's her problem? And by the way, does anyone want to know what it sounds like when a rabbit dies?

Mighty G: Hey train wreck sister, tell us again what it was like to go down to Mexico to have renegade microdermabrasion performed on your face.

(everyone laughs)

Hellcat: I have been staying perfectly quiet in attempts to seem at ease. Would anyone like some artichoke dip? And can the waiter recommend a dish that will help stop my skin from feeling like it's trying to rip off my body as a result of stress?

Dad: I heard that sexual intercourse can help with that feeling. Too bad you won't be having any of that! Ever!

Pablo Honey: That's what you think, sir. We're actually going to excuse ourselves about ten minutes into the entree and go fuck in the alley behind the resturant.

Mom: Isn't it nice to be young and in love? Even if your daughter is a slut! Can someone please get me a motherfucking light?

It's the most wonderful time of the year. g

Astigmatism and Nearsightedness

This guy I dated once has an online column.

Damn, I'm already messing this up. That statement was a ruse. He's not just "this guy I dated once," he is an important friend in my life, albeit in a satellite, "The Way We Were" kind of way. We don't talk much anymore. But every once in a while, he pops up into my head and I smile. I had fun, I learned my lessons, and am thankful. It got me to where I am today.

This online column has got me thinking, though, not about my thankfulness or new and improved way of dealing with my beau. It's got me thinking about knowing yourself. In this month's juicy submission, he explores his newfound joy in realizing that he prefers being alone. According to him, in a half-assed paraphrase that hardly does his words justice, he knows now that women's intense craving for intimacy takes up too much RAM in the old computer, and the system crashes.

Doses of the raw, crackling innards of this man come every once in a while. When they do, be it at that web address or next to him on the couch drinking a 40 oz, it's staggering. Like Uma Thurman sitting bolt upright, spittle on her chin and coke residue on her nose, but in words. That kind of thing.

"How can I cradle their frowns and smiles when I'm constantly struggling to balance my own self?" he writes. I think this is a beautiful fucking sentence. It buoys me up, because I am excited by the freedom can come from a little self-awareness. He is pretty hard on himself for not being present in a relationship, but unable to compromise his desire to be alone (may I take this opportunity, my darlings, to give him some creds and tell him at least one of the exes doesn't think he did a terrible job).

He says that he is alone in feeling like this. He calls himself a mutant. But I think he's being a little hard on himself. He's just being more honest than the other millions of people who are like him at one time or another.

This inspires me. I hope that my poor vision of the present will soon receive some kind of metaphoric lasik surgery, and I will be able to see clearly like this. What a wonderful world we could live in if we all could say this kind of thing right in the moment. Transcend the animal within and live on some other plane of existence, where hunters and gatherers don't exist, and all things are possible.

Whoah. Hold on. I'm starting to sound like some wacky self-help guru that sells CDs with pictures of clouds on them. Just a second. Let me get a hold of myself, here goes...I wonder if he ever cared about anything I said? If I was bothering him, I wish he would have told me. I guess he was just biding his time. What about my boyfriend now? Does he think I talk too much and take away his personal time? Am I fat?

There. I got to be a regular old gal for a second.

With that all behind me, I prefer to hit somewhere between "Fully Enlightened" and "Fucking Mess," leaning towards the former. I know that I have no control over what people are and aren't willing to tell me, so the responsibility lies within. I have to know and communicate what I need, and I have to know if my special someone is willing to give it to me. Done and done. Anything else is immaterial. And, as an important afterthought, I date people who are trustworthy and courageous, which means that I trust them to have the cajones to say something difficult if it means improving our relationship.

It's my job to make it a safe environment for my man to tell me things I might not want to hear. Like that I should shut the fuck up. And for all you lovelies out there who plan on putting it in my comments section, I am one step ahead of you. Putzes.

I don't know what's in store for my friend. I wonder where life will take him...as long as he keeps writing, he'll be fine, I think. I believe that writing is his magical talisman, and poon is not. I do feel pretty confident that he's going to have to reevaluate at some point, since this fragile ballet always seems to change mid-performance.

your girl is lovely, hubble. g

Elephantitis of the Silver Bells

"Man, you get a couple poinsettas in the house, and BANG! Your table is SLAMMIN!"

As I strained and sweated in the gym yesterday morning, my trainer and oh-so-valued confidante Bill was waxing lyrical about the holidays. I shared his views, but was finding new inspiration in his particularly fervent diatribe about the old Saint Nickarific holiday. There was something perking my ears up as he was discussing his love of poinsettias, table settings, and The Pottery Barn. It took me two sets of lat pull-backs to figure out what it was that I was responding to in his voice.

It was testosterone.

I've never heard a man talk about the holidays with excitement, style knowledge, AND masculinity in his voice. Usually it's one or a combination of two. But not all three. And I loved it! Women's enthusiasm for the usually-stressful holiday might be renewed if they heard more men talk like this! Stir our estrogen, and we're getting out the egg nog, your slippers, and our diaphragm!

"I managed to find a wicker placemat that perfectly matched this candle I had made with tan stones. And WHAM (fist strike in the air)! The place setting was complete!"

"I'm telling you, you can't BEAT red Christmas tree ornaments! They are HOT! Like my biceps!"

"I can't wait to have a DINNER PARTY to celebrate! Come on, you can do more weight than that!"

Yes, it's obvious that women get excited over housewares, and when men actually mirror that, they get all hopeful that the world isn't a dark and horrible place to exist. But more than that, hearing a man express his love for something he usually stays far away from is really exciting. It made me want to run home, grab my man, and decorate the Treehouse for Christmas and get naked and tangled in icicle lights.

Alas, the workout was not over and my man was hard at work in the Shoaks...so look the fuck out in a couple weekends, is all I'm saying. The Christmas Spirit is pumping through my veins, because as Bill said, "Right here and right now, we are making a VOW to get FIRED UP for the holidays! And to swear less. Who wants to do some crunches?!"

ooh, me me! g

What I Didn't Do This Weekend

Dear Grae:
"we shoot unique video in Los Angeles. it's fun and harmless.

the video shoot is of non-nude women tickling the heck out of each other.
nothing sexual about the tickling, it's just regular old tickling.
although some of the tickling scenes have the tickled female in a tastefull tied position.
we shoot this at our LA studio. its NON-nude and NON-adult. the shoots pay $200 per hour, and can last up to 5 hours if you're chosen to also be the tickler of many other female models.

so our first question to you would be:
how ticklish are you? choose from one of the following:

Not ticklish at all
Sort of ticklish
Average ticklish
Extremely (above average) ticklish
Scream, cry and spastically kick ticklish

our next question is, would you like to schedule with us to shoot with us.
ask any questions you'd like. we are honest and up front. we aren't hiding anything. the shoot is exactly what we've described.

please be speedy with your reply. we're shooting again very soon.

Thanks very much."

And By The Way

How in the good Lord's name did I ever find Jon Corbett's character on Sex and the City even mildly attractive? I've been watching season 3 (the best season, according to Matty Boom) and he is adding some fuel to my Bactrim-induced fire.

Every time he's on screen, he brings some kind of vibe that smells of half-assed zen distant fuckwadedness. I know he supposedly owns a furniture store, but he's never working. All he does is judge Carrie and offer puzzling, vague statements when she asks stupid, girly questions. In fact, I know why we never see him working in the furniture store. He actually writes fortune cookies for a living and can't leave his work at the office.

When he enters, I am often treated to the sight of him, head cocked, glancing out of silently inquisitive eyes, running his fingers through his hair, and only saying one or two words that STILL ruin the scene. "Fluffernut," he says in my head, and I am no longer thinking of Manolos and cosmos. I'm thinking of ways to dispose of imaginary 6-foot-and-some-change male bodies. This character of his is quietly confident, and it seems to make him treat everyone else like they're retards at the zoo. It bugs me.

His mere presence makes me roll my eyes. With his scraggly hair and love of jazz, and voice that occupies the low registers. Fuck Aidan. I'm glad Sarah Jessica Parker ends up with someone else. And I'm also glad that John Corbett was able to regain the use of his frontal lobe and do some other characters. I'm thinking specifically of his tour-de-force performance in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but whatever.

on-demand. g

Don't Pull the Mask Off the Old Lone Ranger

I am in the surliest mood today. I've been stomping around the Treehouse, indignantly mumbling to myself at every turn. I've been softly kicking things out of my way when I walk, even if they weren't in my path. My clothes feel itchy. My brow hurts from being frozen in a constant scowl. I have my cranky pants on right now, and they don't show signs of coming off.

I blame the antibiotics.

Every time my phone rings, I grumble "Who is it NOW?" even though I haven't gotten enough calls to necessitate my fussiness. Every time my stomach lurches (which is often), I throw my hands up and say "You know what? I'm just going to bed," although I know that I have a lot of work to do and will end up destitute if I don't stay awake and complete these tasks.

I am wrinkling my nose as I type. Not in the cute bunny rabbit way, but in the bad smell way. Not attractive.

I am cold, then hot. I am wearing too few itchy-ass clothes, then not enough about two seconds later. There's nothing interesting on TV, and even if there was, I shouldn't be watching it. No one has emailed within the last hour. I am hungry but reluctant to eat, since the only thing that I want is crackers. But if I eat those, my sodium intake will be through the roof and that would be bad.

I chose today to look at caloric content of the food I eat and realized that it was a dangerous, ugly path I was heading down. Numbers swim in my head, including how many I burn when I exercise versus how many I take in. I don't know how close the numbers are. Could this be why my trainer had a Talk with me a few weeks ago? I'm clear on how many grams of sugar is in a Hostess Cupcake, but how do I figure out how many calories are in a potato? Or salad? Hellfire.

Every time I am inclined to take a break, I open the Best Of section on craigslist and read an entry. They are angry, sarcastic, and scathing, and I find them hilarious. However, the laughter brings no respite.

Crankiness winds its way through my bloodstream, pumps through my heart, and out again. I am in a funk because I am busy hating antibiotics. They futz with my birth control and dry my skin out. They make my headspace cloudy and my countenance undesireable. I want some covers to hide under.

*sniff*. g

It's the Only Thing That There's Just Too Little Of

My eyes flew open early this morning, as the sun wasn't shining through my bedroom window, and I felt something funny in my chest. Not like a facehugger or anything, it was more along the lines of good old fashioned happiness. It was like there was a Chesty Balloon of Exuberance living near my heart, and when that happens, you don't ask any questions, you just go with the flow.

I felt like writing a love letter.

My fingers flew across the keyboard as though possessed by Cupid himself. Soon, I felt that I needed to take a break or else the love would take me over and I would turn into some sort of Love Vortex and take out the whole neighborhood, love style. I saved the letter and made the fatal mistake of taking inventory in the old Drafts folder of my Inbox. My eyes fell on an old love letter I had sent recently, which I opened.

I soon found my Chesty Balloon deflating. My face was twisting in agony over my mushy metaphors, cheeseball anecdotes, and overall poor representation of how I feel. I couldn't figure it out. I've written a lot of things in my lifetime that warranted a positive response from readers. I've gotten As on papers in school. I read real books and not just Star Magazine. I frequently employ the use of my "Word a Day" desk calendar. So what the hell is going on? Why can't I write a love letter that I can be proud of?

It also made me kind of sad for my boyfriend. He is super smart and well-read. He has a true gift for conveying his thoughts in a way that leaves you warm and fuzzy with a hint of admiration to add some tang to it. And here I am, making him sit at his computer during work hours and read this drivel, this deplorable muck.

I've had this problem forever. I guess my feelings get so strong that an important, word-knowing part of my brain shuts down to acknowledge the feelings instead of allowing me to write down smart adjectives. Yet I still insist on writing through the haze, and what I end up with is a face creased with smile lines and a paper full of static and beeps.

Love turns me into one of those goddamned bushmen that click to communicate. Only less eloquent.

There's no solution. If I've got a handle on my feelings, then I can make it sound pretty. But if it's coming straight from the Ticker in all it's emotion-rific glory, then it ends up a little ridiculous. I am going to keep writing, though, in the hopes that one day I will write something that I can be proud of. I guess the important part is that I'm writing them in the first place. Right?

love, grae

Many Moons Ago

This morning, it dawned on me that it was time.

I swiftly replaced the blue cartridge that sits dutifully in the kitchen sink faucet. Like a soldier whose tour of duty has come to a close, I silently thanked the old one for providing me with (hopefully) cleaner drinking water. I saluted the fresh, new filter and waved my hankie at it as it assumed its post. I drank in the moment, no pun intended, to see what it was like to make a big deal out of nothing. Then I threw the old filter in the trash and stopped fooling around.

It got me to thinking about how often I replace these things. Just like toothbrushes, eye makeup, and white undershirts, the expendable nature of these goods constantly signal the passage of time. So I delved deeper into that thought for a minute. Where was I four-ish months ago? What battle was I engaged in? How did my ass look then, as opposed to now? etc.

The answer? I like where I'm heading. 4 months ago, I had fewer pairs of cute panties, no projects that excited me, one less scarf, a hurting heart, panic attacks, and lots of dehydration due to constant waterworks in my eye-area. Sure, it was summer, and sure, life wasn't too darn bad (I had a roof over my head and amazing people surrounding me), but the HellCat's spirits were at a major low regardless.

It was one of those times.

Fast forward. Here I am, writing this while wrapped in my embarassingly domestic polar fleece floor-length robe. It is navy blue with white stars on it. I also have on slippers. My hard drives are hard at work rendering, and my apartment smells like apples. The sky outside is cloudy, which is my favorite. In my heart, I feel like everything is possible. And this water tastes great!

cheese. g

Yaar, it's Drivin' Me Nuts!

I was at the gym, stair-mastering my ass off, when I saw that a whole bunch of passengers on a cruise ship were attacked by pirates off the coast of Somalia.

"Oh Goody," I thought as sweat poured down the small of my back creating something similar to the Rio Grande. "They were treated to the sight of funny hats and puffy white shirts. Some with eye patches, some without. Less teeth than an average person. And scabbards! What luck. Maybe they could all get a hearty round of the Spongebob Squarepants theme going."

Well, the media has once again given me an unrealistic depiction of the world. These guys were super mean. They were grimy, but had no red sashes tied jauntily around their middles. No one had a peg leg, and there certainly was no fowl resting adorably on anyone's shoulder. That meaty space between their neck and shoulderblade was taken up by grenade launchers (which is a poor choice, considering that grenade launchers never say cute things like "AWP! Shiver me timbers, I am the Dread Pirate Roberts!" Or anything, for that matter).

The cruise ship was hit several times by grenades. Finally, after sustaining some damage, it was able to speed up, change course, and hit the pirates with a sonic-boom-making LRAD (long range acoustic device). They escaped, mostly unscathed.

Now, here's what I want to know. Why in the hell was a cruise ship out there in the first place? This occurred off the coast of Somalia, where there has not been a centralized government for 14 years. They have no laws, essentially. Did the people at Seaborn Cruise Lines really think that it was a nice place to take a whole bunch of civilians? Were they planning on dumping some radioactive waste, and needed to go somewhere under the radar? What other reason could there have possibly been?

Maybe Kathie Lee Gifford pulled some strings and got some other cruise line to do her dirty work. Maybe Carnival was supposed to dump the waste, or kidnap the children, or smuggle the diamonds. But she couldn't risk it, not after the whole sweat shop thing, and also because Cody and Cassidy have rickets and can't be without mama...or maybe she just wants to take down every other cruise line, one by one, so she clandestinely poses as a potential customer and requests they sail to dangerous places where they'll surely be killed.

I know that Kathie Lee has something to do with this.

In summation, my favorite pirate joke is as follows:

A pirate walks into a bar wearing a steering wheel on his belt. The bartender looks at him and asks him why he has the steering wheel there. And the pirate responds...(the title of this blog).

the movie was rated AAR! g

Good Morning, LA style

Janice Dickinson shook my hand this morning and told me I was beautiful. She also mentioned that when she opens her new modeling agency to commercial work, she wants me to give her a call.

And all before lunch! Just another Saturday...

heh. g

Domo Oregato

The HellCat is tired, my darlings. I was meditating on this idea this morning, as I sat in the darkened Treehouse and tried desperately to muster the energy to go to the gym. My tanks are draining faster than I can fill them. "When will this end?" I wondered aloud. "And Madonna must be a robot."

That might seem like a non-sequitur, but it makes perfect sense to me and my computer. I was watching the latest music video from the Queen of Pop, and was marveling at her perfect ass. She is in a tiny little pink leotard and high heels, dancing around, doing a modern version of The Hustle and flexing for all she's worth.

She looks good.

When you get up close, she is one of those women who you know is older but doesn't look entirely her age, so she just comes off as vaguely creepy. The vague creepiness is directly proprotionate to how much you want to have sex with her. You know how this works. Hollywood is freaking us all out.

Anyhow, I know this woman is rich, does lots of yoga, and eats macrobiotic, raw, nutrient-rich dirt and leaves (which is pretty much the recipe for aging slower than one normally would). I know that. But seriously. She's almost 50 and her ass makes normal human beings weep as though they just saw the Virgin Mary appear in their Wheaties.

Don't think that the director didn't know this. We get lots and lots of cleverly positioned ass shots showing old Esther wiggling, bending over, and joggling the moneymaker at us as we sit on our couch, soft-bodied and bleary eyed. Later in the vid, she takes to hip shaking. There's basically a lot of below-the-waist action in this new visual treat from Madge.

I ascertained from watching it, as I said previously, that she is a robot. Just like Dakota Fanning. Case in point: she broke her arm very recently on her birthday. Was she in a cast in this video? No. The sling was a front! She never broke anything. They just needed to reorder her titanium bolts that screw everything together.

That should be proof enough for you. If you want some more, you cynical cutie, then here it is. The new album is called "Confessions on a Dance Floor." Obviously she is itching to confess that she is not human. HelLO, wake up and smell the soldering iron!

all hung up. g

When Johnny Cash Attacks

Last night marked the beginning of my favorite time of year. It is ON now, my darlings. Halloween was last night, and I am officially in the throes of the season that never fails to make me happy. You can expect me to be all excited and mushy through the end of January, just for the record.

Anyway, last night began with The Mighty G, dressed as Cletus the Wiley Cowboy, ordering my sister to "fix [him] a chicken pot pie, bitch." What the Mighty G didn't know is that my born-again Christian father was on the phone with my sister at the time and inquired as to "who in the world Grae is hanging out with." The best part? My sister's answer was "Oh, that's just The G. Mom wanted to take her to dinner when you guys visit at Thanksgiving."

So stay tuned for THAT blog.

Anyway, after a wild cab ride with a driver who hates rap and especially 50 cent, we shmoozed with Lady MelRaf, the coolest Dirty Old Man in the world, Robin, the World's Cutest Pregnant Catholic Schoolgirl, as well as Dakota Fanning, an original Dawn of the Dead Zombie, and Wednesday Addams. I noticed that Jeffy, aka Harry Potter, was getting a little aggressive with his wand, but figured he would calm down as soon as we got to the street where he could join his Gryffindor Pals and use his magic.

We hit Santa Monica. Filling my ears were passersby shouting "Johnny Cash!" at my special man friend and striking the air triumphantly with their fists. Soon after hitting the boulevard, I was accosted by Asians Who Adore Tinkerbell (A.W.A.T.), gay men, Peter Pans, and little girls who were convinced that I was "the real Tinkerbell." It dawned on me that I had a strong fan base with the youths, and needed to stay sober and mostly polite as to not shatter their dreams. I figured that Cletus was doing enough shouting at strangers to "Get me a Coors light," among threats to make various people "a hood ornament on [his] truck," so we were all set for the rowdy aspect of the night.

The real fun started when we arrived back at Lady Mel Raf's to see a drunken JC, pigtails a-waggling, fending off advances from the young lady I will refer to as the "Underage Train Wreck French Maid." Her breasts were so present and ample that I actually found myself hoping she would rub them all over every man in the room (yes, my boyfriend included), just so he could say he had that happen once.

Her nipples were peeking out from her costume for most of the night. It was the closest I have ever seen some other female's nips...which made me kind of disppointed in myself. Shouldn't I have done more of that in college?

Harry Potter, always the chivalrous one, saved her from being molested by an old man. The Brothers Nelms and Johnny Cash also acted as a sort of buffer between her and the crowd when they were able to. She mostly just needed saving from herself, so when she joined us, it really made Halloween complete. What's the holiday without an underage girl, recently kicked out of her house, brandishing her feather duster suggestively at strangers and asking loudly for "stronger drinks that aren't made for pussies?"

Anyway, in one magical moment, we passed the KBIG stage that began playing "Baby Got Back." I kissed my hand, and waved it at the sky saying, "I Love You, JenniJens!" as I began shaking my wand and my jingle bells in time to the beat. All of a sudden, I felt a furious, assertive, take-no-prisoners kind of freak dancing happening at my backside. Mildly concerned, I turned to assess the offender. Was it that creepy Cat in The Hat I saw leering at my wings? Or the slutty nurse brandishing oversized-and-fake-but-still-scary hypodermic needles?

Nay, it was neither. It was Johnny Cash.

A surge of relief filled my body, since we often do versions of this same thing in private. I was all in. When the music finally died down, so did our fever, and we were able to switch to a normal stride. We turned around and saw that we had sent Cletus into a giggle spiral. According to her, she was just walking behind The Man in Black, and all of a sudden, without words or warning, he began dancing nasty with Tinkerbell and she Loved It. It was as though she had been silently begging for it, and he was succumbing to the siren song of her short skirt and jauntily bouncing wings.

The night was one of the best Halloweens I have had since my parents threw a huge Halloween party in my backyard with chili and warm apple cider for all my closest 10 year old friends.

If this was any indication of how my favorite time of year will turn out, then I am all set.

i fell into a burning ring of hotness. g