Confessions of a Twenty-Something Drama Queen

There is a disturbance in the force, somewhere over in Hollywood. Evil lives there. It throbs with rage, waiting to unleash its fury on the next unsuspecting passerby. It's not at the Hamburger Hamlet, like you think it is. Nope, not at American Apparel OR the Crunch Fitness. Not the Starbucks, either.

It's in the Mighty G's new apartment building.

Perhaps the building was built on an ancient burial ground, or it was cursed by a wayward gyspy. But it harbors dark forces within. G just got there, and it has tried to get her three different times. Each time, she thought she was safe but neigh, she was walking right into the Lion's Den. It was a harsh reminder that that Hollywood is filled with things we cannot fathom or protect ourselves from. Like lions.

You're wondering if the evil is contained within a rune, or a small doll? Nope. An old Grandfather clock? Uh uh. A mysterious feline that she found sitting on her chest at night trying to steal her breath? Nope, that was just an accident because the neighbor, in a mescaline-induced haze, teleported the cat with his matter-moving machine.

Luckily, the G's bathroom sink is NOT the culprit either, like mine was when I lived in Austin. Its flying porcelain chunks sent my roommate to the Rite Aid once for butterfly bandages! And on the same night we were going to see Semisonic! Zounds!

The Mighty G is up against terror in its purest form. By signing that lease, she agreed to go head-to-head with a filthy, paint-covered, crotchety Ladder Of Death. It stands as high as a grave is deep, and that's where it aims to send her. THE GRAVE!

Seriously, the thing is out to kill us all. It falls when it should be standing, trips you when you're walking near it, and dirties the area around it. I thought, when I sauntered casually into the apartment today, that it would be gone. Silly was I, four hours younger than I am now and much less wise. IT WAS HIDING IN THE CLOSET.

I picked up the G's framed posters, which needed to be hidden away from the numerous milk crates, boxes, bags, and other scratch-causing things. I opened the closet door thinking, "They'll be safe in here."

I opened the door, and as it creaked a small voice crept into my head. "The ladder is waiting for you." I stopped in my tracks. "It couldn't be. We're done painting the kitchen. There's no reason for it to be here anymore. Quit being such a pussy." I replaced my hand on the cold steel knob and turned. Creeaaaak.

My eyes widened as they took in the sight of the ladder getting ready to throw itself onto my face in a hurty way. I dropped the posters, threw my hands in front of my face, and screamed like a banshee.

**What happened next can only be described from the point of view of the moving man, an ex-professional Brazilian soccer player Martin.**

Hearing the screams of a hot white girl wearing a tank top and a "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle" baseball cap, Martin knew he had no time to waste. He increased his pace to a trot, shifted the box of underpants and DVDs to enable maximum girl-saving abilities, and ran through the doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks.

What he saw was not me getting accosted by a homicidal home-improvement tool. He saw a six-foot tall girl in culottes and green plastic shoes holding her hands in front of her eyes and screaming her head off. That's it. No ladder. It was still in the closet, in its original place. No danger or threat was present. Martin threw down the box in disgust. I stopped screaming. Things were awkward for a minute. I cleared my throat and managed to squeeze out a meek "So...you like...stuff?" and then I sped out of the room, ashamed.

The ladder won again. It made Martin think I was off my rocker. It was all ready to fall on me, and only righted itself when it realized someone was coming.

I wish I could say that the G moved the ladder out of the apartment, but she didn't. It is still in that closet, waiting. And the next time we face it, we'll be ready.

I hope she tipped those movers well.

from the legs. g

Bent Over on the Enterprise

I'm going to shatter an illusion you might have of me, my darlings. I know it's a bold move to make on a Monday morn, but here goes.

I am lacking in any lesbian experience.

I have only grinded upon a woman on a dancefloor. I remember it vividly, as though six years ago tomorrow was only yesterday. Her freshly-shaven head reflected the strobe lights and disco ball glitter as though she was a skinny-pants wearing angel. Her Doc Martens glided effortlessly over the dance floor, and her wallet chain slapped seductively on my left outer thigh. Occasionally, her spike-studded bracelet would dig into my wrist, causing waves of delicious pain. As she spun me around the floor of that gay club, my lesbo friends were staring in open-mouthed awe at the unity we possessed after only one dance to that Cher song.

Alas, Sherry the Lesbian left me once she realized that I was a Fan of Cock. She moved onto my pal who was also sporting a shaved head and wearing the cutest little bow tie. Sherry was only to be in our lives for a short period of time, leaving only the memory of her rough sex play as she retreated home to her vegan co-op and 2 year old daughter.

But that's as close as I've ever come. Until now.

Saturday night started off politely. I had some lovely tacos with friends and a nice stroll around the Grove. Little did I know that I would go from Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate" with a dancing fountain to T-Rex's "20th Century Boy" with half naked girls shaking it in my face. This was going to be a birthday to remember.

The usual suspects were all there--Smashzoom, Pablo Honey, The Mighty G, volunteering buddies, Dippy, RobMag and his lovely bevy of beauties, LeezyB and her man Susan B. Anthony, and old work chums. My fabulously gay neighbors were even around, carefully deciding who to give one of their three dollar bills to. Would it be the girl with the cleanest g-string, or the woman in the Batman Mask? Tough decisions.

Heidi served us alcohol as her braids swung gaily in the dark, dark bar. I had several Amstels, cosmos, and Surfers on Acid. The night was warming up. I was learning important lessons such as, "If you get caught lookin', then you owe her a buck," which Dippy so eloquently shared with us. I also learned that I am unable to tell when my boyfriend is high, but can rely on the TattleTaling Mighty G to help me figure it out.

I quickly discerned which stripper was my favorite. Nicknamed by the gays "Prison Break," due to her numerous tattoos and penchant for mad-dogging customers, this woman was hot. I was charmed by her raven-colored hair and dark eyes with just a sparkle of crazy in them. Her little button nose would sometimes get the slightest little wrinkle as she gyrated on that cold steel pole, and when she licked her lips and left her mouth halfway open in that "I'm pulling my panties off" kind of way, it was not to be missed. And like LeezyB said, she definetly had the cutest skirts out of all the girls.

In my drunken haze, as I gulped down a cosmo, I saw Prison Break next to me. She grabbed my hand, and the warmth of it made me wonder if I had died and was being touched by Jesus himself. Jesus...er, Prison Break was gently leading me over to the lapdance booth. I looked back at my friends questioningly, and they smiled. RobMag and LeezyB yelled, "Happy Birthday!" as Susan B. Anthony just sat back and smiled the grin of a man who knew what I was in for.

I was a little nervous. Prison Break introduced herself as Lola Ray, and I could only stammer "I have really enjoyed watching you dance all night. You're great." She smiled sweetly and said that she had been dancing for 8 years, and that she hoped a good song was coming on next.

It dawned on me that my drunken haze in combination with the low lighting made Prison Break resemble Natalie from Love Actually. Natalie is one of my favorites, as she is the beautiful girl that accidentally swears in front of world leaders and gives chocolate biscuits for tea time. If I were Hugh Grant, I would have searched all of London for her, too. I snapped back to reality. Martine McCutcheon was about to rub herself all over me, which was both strangely appealing and very wrong at the same time. We all know what happened when Billy Bob Thornton got a little too close, right? Was it different because she had traded in her conservative button-down shirt for a leather bra and see-through panties?

The dance started. Suddenly my mind was filled with etiquette rules I needed to follow. "Leave your hands on the couch, don't touch the girl, not even to brush that eyelash off her cheek," I thought. "Don't try to play with her long, lovely locks of hair or give her an encouraging pat on the shoulder." I was not sure what my face should be doing. Should I be smiling or serious? Telling her she was hot, or being quiet? I settled for a sleazy, drunken grin and occasional biting of the lip. I mentioned to her a couple of times that she was beautiful and a great dancer, which is what I would want to hear if I were gyrating on someone's knee for money.

I could tell she wanted me to have a really good birthday. I was getting her ginormous breasts in my face, as well as rubbed on my breasts. She was grinding against me, and occasionally turning around and bending over right next to my face. I wondered what lotion she used, since her ass was luminescent and very taut. Her hair was soft when it fell on my bare shoulders, and as she rose and fell on my person, her smell of cherries and personal lubricant stung my nostrils. This woman was totally into me, and I was just as drunk on her as I was the vodka.

And then it was over. I was hetero again. I glanced back at her, trying to regain one iota of what we had just felt for one another, but she had already moved on to Clea Duvall. I shrugged my shoulders and thanked my friends for taking me to Tuna Town. A short trip, mind you, but a precious one nonetheless.

Further pushing me back into the realm of Adam and Eve was the old gentleman sitting at the bar. He was the only thing standing between me and my tab, and so I entertained his invitations while frantically gesturing for my credit card. He was sweet, telling me that he was in the Navy and wanted to take me back to his ship. He offered to bend me over on the Enterprise and make sweet love to me, which was really kind of him.

My boyfriend passed by, silently asking me if I was okay. I nodded and turned back to the oldie. "See that guy? That was my boyfriend. I am really flattered that you want to take me back to your ship and everything, but the fact is that I am going back to his ship, and he is going to bend me over. So, there you have it. But thanks a lot." He laughed and told me he wasn't really in the Navy, and where did I get this great sense of humor? I brought it back to my man: "My boyfriend is a comic, so I've learned a thing or two." Yeah, like how to buy time when drunk old geezers offer to fuck me from behind on the USS Enterprise, I thought. But I quickly signed my receipt and received a kiss on the cheek from the geezer.

Upon arrival home, as RobMag and his bevy drifted quietly off to sleep, Pablo Honey recited the "I Have a Dream Speech" into my hoo-hah. We also had a heated discussion about Chairman Mao and Chinese communism, finally collapsing in an exhausted heap under the covers, completing the night on a perfect note.

The night was over. But I will never forget my brief brush with Lola's briefs.

thank you, friends. g

Focus Problems

Living situations. Am I going to live in a studio apartment for the rest of my life? What is my credit score right now, and would I be approved for an apartment? How can I get rid of my belongings and become a monk, free from the pull of possessions and comfy beds?

Money. Will I ever have enough of it to own a home? How much should I be saving right now? Is there any way I can get ahead? Is this monk thing really viable, or will I have to give up my check card?

Health. Should I be spending more time working towards my goals, or just let it all happen? How do I avoid becoming an old fattie? Do monk robes come in extra large?

Career. Is freelancing really the way to go, or do I need a real job? Am I even good at this? Should I be settling for a nice position at the local library and forget about sitting in front of computers in dark rooms? Shouldn't I be more successful right now than I actually am?

Do I even look good in Monk Robe Orange?

I am having problems getting rid of this anxiety. I think my adrenals must be hurting, otherwise I would be able to dismiss all these things as the poppycock they are and just keep on truckin'. However, my own concerns plus those of everyone around me are keeping me from enjoying this week.

I'm also very cold up here in the Treehouse.

The moment of respite came when I was doing my super awesome new pilates routine. I was checking my form, feeling the burn (that I am still feeling one day afterwards). All of a sudden, a tiny voice said "I am proud of you. Look at all the power you have. You are doing this. Good for you, hottie." I had forgotten that this is what working out should be--not the constant "This isn't good enough" sound that had been droning on in my cranium for months now.

I am surprised that I let myself go this long without feeling good about what I have accomplished.

I am trying to calm my nerves and be the person I want to be. I want to be the one who balances her checkbook, stays within her budget, thinks ahead, does work that makes her soul happy, stays in shape, laughs a lot, and engages in lots and lots of Doing It.

It all comes back to Doing It. g

Memory Lane is a Rocky Road

I am cleaning out my closet. In an effort to prove to myself that I can free myself of material needs and shed weight at the drop of a hat, I am ridding myself of my history.

It's making me all weepy.

I started with re-organizing my wig crate. Yes, I have enough to put in a crate, and they come in handy for impromptu sex games and/or Halloween. Then, I ventured farther, gingerly past the boxes of photos, and straight to the old notebooks. I rid myself of most of the notes from my AP Literature class that I loved (it was seriously like something out of Dead Poets Society, without the suicide).

I still felt strong. Accomplished, even.

I started to weed out my cables. How many telephone cords do I actually need (is the question that remains unanswered as I type this blog out to bleed the poison out of my system). At the bottom of the crate are the old videos; one I made as a graduation present for an old friend. He was recently diagnosed as having a brain tumor and thinks that I don't believe in bi-polarism, so we don't trade phone calls anymore.

Another was an application supplement to get into the Intensive Production sequence in college. My TA told me that my animation idea was "too easy" and "lacked a statement about art or reality." I told him that the point was to make a film that made people smile and appreciate love. I left our meeting in a huff, knowing that I was right, and made a film that not only got me into the program but got me an A in the class as well (graded by that very same TA).

One video was done to commemorate a friend of mine's arrest one Christmas. He and his Kansas frat brothers chopped down a Christmas tree on the Dean's lawn...so we made a 20/20-esque expose on the violent nature of College Kids Today. The finale consisted of us mobbing him paparazzi-style when he arrived home for the holidays, straight from jail. It was the birth of reality TV.

Usually, no one understood why I liked doing these videos, but were kind enough to leave me alone while I did.

Then the musical revealed itself, along with the photographs, the scripts, and the production notes. As I blew the dust off of them and cradled them in my arms, I was hit with the memories of making a film with someone that I no longer speak to, because I pushed them to the brink of insanity and really hurt their feelings.

I am into using vague and numerically-incorrect pronouns like "they."

The Treehouse is a wreck. It looks like my past just heaved and threw up all of Quondam Grae in one multicolored, fake haired lump. This is me, my darlings. It ain't glamorous, it is not neat, and it certainly isn't without fault.

I've been wrestling with these skeletons in my head a lot lately, but I wasn't prepared for how I would feel when I actually held them in my hands.

dem bones. g

Wake Up Call

I am spring cleaning the Treehouse. I realized this was a priority when my special man friend opened my closet door, and I reacted by squealing "Nooo!" while crumpling to the ground. I also kicked my feet a few times and put my hands over my eyes.

Anyway, I have been cleaning stains on the carpet, shedding unwanted knick knacks, and buffing the kitchen counter till it shined enough to reflect the part of the apartment I haven't cleaned yet.

I also decided that it's Draino time in the bathtub. I read the directions, avoided splashing it on my face (like The Mighty G did once...ugh, shiver). After 30 minutes of eagerly awaiting the zero hour of Unclogged Drains, I turned on the water. And it didn't drain. It was still clogged. In fact, it seemed worse than it did before I did the Draino. "How is this possible?" I wondered to myself while scratching my head and then checking out my backside in the mirror for pertness.

I still can't figure it out. But I guess that means that there is a lot of Hellcat's mane down there, which is disgusting and completely inappropriate to mention in a public forum. What do men do who are seventeen times furrier than me? Do they stand in two feet of water, lamenting their own biological curses? Or do they Draino every other week?

I am confused and hurting. My head is working double time on this one, and I find it hard to eat or conduct business. I'm going into hiding until I can figure it out.

splash. g

"Puseta, Shmagina, Let's Call the Whole Thing Off"

Editing, cigarettes, sex, chocolate, drugs, exercise, talking, shopping. Everything I do (or could do, considering I am an adult who pays her own bills) could be left by the wayside if other needs prevail. I have never had an addicitive personality. It has kept me from wasting too much time thus far, until now.

I just bought the Sex and the City Complete Series boxed set.

I can't stop watching. Disk after disk goes into my DVD player as its core temperature increases by the minute. My remote is feeling the burn too, as I maneuver expertly through menus and fast forward through the opening sequence to get directly to the good stuff. Hello, my name is Grae, and I am a SatC junkie. "Hi Grae," no one says, because there is no support group for this. I don't get any pretty shiny coins. I just get a surge of estrogen and a new tendency to obsess over events in my own life just like those well-dressed successful ladies do. Only I don't have any New York style pizza or Manolos.

I have got to turn this around. If not just for me, for my boyfriend's sake, because soon he too will fall under SatC scrutiny. I will begin feeling "not in the mood" so we can discuss our relationship, or perhaps just demand he go shopping with me at Prada. Either way, he's going to suffer, and he's too good looking to get worry lines in his forehead this young. That would be a tragedy. So here I am. Turning it around.

I have decided to use the show's characters and situations as field research for what Never To Do in Life and Relationships. Here are some examples.

-Do not ask your boyfriend important questions that you need a truthful answer to during sex/right before climax.

-Do not spend $500 on one pair of shoes...regularly. And don't take them off at a baby shower because they will get stolen and your girlfriend will shame you for spending so much money on footwear.

-Do not wear an engagement ring on a necklace instead of a finger to "keep it closer to your heart" when that really means "to buy time until I have to make an actual decision."

-Do not help a man unless he has consented to being helped. If he wants his naked body to be plastered on a billboard in Times Square shilling for Absolut, he will give you the green light to make this happen.

-Do not wait until after you are married to Kyle MacLachlan have sex with him.

-Do not imbibe so much champagne at a fashion show that you trip in the middle of the runway and cause Heidi Klum to have to step over you.

-Do not have sex with David Duchovny because he has checked himself into an insane asylum and can't come out to play like other kids.

-Do not allow men to criticize your Downtown Grooming Habits without making sure they're shaven and shorn themselves.

-Do not convince yourself that wearing sexy shoes will make men more attracted to you.

-If you meet a ballerina who wants you to live with him in France, don't go. You will just be stolen back by the American love of your life. Why spend the money on a ticket?

-Do not become a lesbian unless it's with Sonia Braga.

I hope I am turning what could be a huge negative into more of a positive. I'm working doubletime to save myself (and my man) from estrogen-induced comas. What have I missed? Guess I have to comb over the series one more time...or seven...

a sucker for pink suede. g

Masks We Wear

Native American tribes used face paints to signify different events in their lives--everything from war to celebration. It seems funny to me that we came here, stole their land and made their food sources extinct, etc., but we still managed to miss the important stuff like the aforementioned public declaration of what's going on in your life. Until now...

A line of makeup I got interested in recently is advertising one of its blushes as "giving you the look of being in love." I did some field research, and it truly does deliver that "inner glow" thing that happens when one is all twitterpated and chemically crazy.

The implications of this are staggering. Something like this could be used to fool everyone to be perceived as something we're not...which was the goal of makeup in the first place, I would wager. However, science has now opened the door to making this a more sophisticated venture. I'm going to get a little nuts here and suggest we appropriate some more of the Native American's culture. We could open the door to using makeup/face paint as a way of communicating our life situation.

Consider it--at the swipe of a sable-haired blush brush, you can look like you are in love with someone. Let's capture the look of a promotion at work, a birth, or even your recent feng-shui-friendly rearrangement of your apartment. Maybe they could make a blush that captures the look of grieving, or perhaps just a small adrenal imbalance. You could put on modern-day tribal paints to indicate your triumph over cancer, or a recent breakup.

This could become incredibly useful in our world. Not only could we build a makeup look that indicates we're experiencing something, we could make a key for other people to give them a whole new level of preparedness in dealing with us. "If Jane comes into the office looking slightly orange and sweaty, it means she's using the 'Recently Infected with Chlamydia' tinted moisturizer. Stay away until the antibiotics have run their course." That way, we won't have to ask her how her date with the foreigner went or give her a hug, we can just give her an affectionate wave and some yogurt to replace her friendly bacteria. Awkwardness avoided.

At that critical moment in a date, we could swipe on a touch of "Come Home with me and Screw Me In the Pool" brow highlighter, or choose to put on a dot of "You're Going to Have to Do Better than This" concealer. Perhaps a pat of "I Only Like you Because of your Stock Portfolio" lipstick?

We could integrate staple pieces into our collection to act as self-advertising. Sally used to wear the "I'll Fuck You if you Buy Me Dinner and Dessert" mascara and "Let's See Other People" perfume, but now things have changed. She has turned 25 and decided to start wearing the "I Would Like to Get Married within 5 years" foundation, with a touch of "I am Still on the Fence About Children" bronzer, and finishes it off with several shades from the "Likes it From Behind" lip set. This way, Jon, who wears the "I'm Getting Older and Hate Coming Home Alone to my Apartment that Smells Like Feet" deoderant the green light to maybe start up something special.

I think this could solve all the world's problems. We could get some of those kids in Ethiopia some "I'm Full and Perfectly Healthy" eyeshadow and we would all feel much less guilty.

swirl tap buff. g

Mambo Queen

In this lovely New Year, that began with much glitter, love, spiked nog, great food, and warm fuzzies, I have made a decision. I am abandoning my job as an editor and beginning my training as the first ever world class Ballroom Pilatsa Dancer.

What is Pilatsa, you should have asked yourself if you were reading carefully. The answer, my darlings, requires much backstory and magic and all that. Prepare thyself.

At the towering and valiant Costco, I passed the fitness section and did a double take. Mari Windsor, face of the renowned Windsor pilates series, was on the cover of several boxed sets, grinning at me. Her little elven face was imploring me to update my normal pilates routine. This set was all about fat burning, which is my thing these days after all the yummy cookies and pie and second helpings of mashed potatoes. Who am I kidding? Third helpings.

Anyway, I succumbed to the brightly colored packaging and put it in the cart.

I forgot about it, as the rest of the day was all about being with my so-special friend Mister DS, and there was much discussing about significant others and blazer-shopping that needed to happen. But when the afternoon was over, and I was winding down for the evening, Mari gently called my name. "Grae," she was saying, "turn on this DVD and your thighs will instantly shrink three inches. No, seriously. I know a guy. He can make it happen. So just insert the disk, plumpy."

What followed inspired and excited me. It also had next to nothing to do with traditional pilates.

Let's start with the music. This makes or breaks a video. I've seen everything from dated electronica better suited for inspirational commercials than workouts, or even slutty bass-slapping music that made me feel like a puritan. Anyway, this video had three nice-looking Jamaican men playing bongos. I know they were Jamaican because they were wearing jams, breezy shirts, and had dreadlocks. That's like, their national uniform, right? Those men played spectacularly, speeding up when we turned up the heat, and even inserting careful rhythms to help us out with steps. They also seemed to have an excellent rapport with Mari, especially when she said "Papa was a rolling stone, right, everyone?" for no reason, and they winked and laughed at her. Must have been a personal joke.

The steps. Oh, the steps. I began a mere woman, and quickly blossomed into a scaldingly hot dancer. I was tightening my tummy as I glided across the Treehouse floor, shaking my ass, and Pilatsa-ing like a pro. I was doing the Seduction Walk, Pacing, Mermaiding, and making the magic happen. Tons of magic.

Let's shatter the fantasy here, for just a second. I looked like a fucking retard and was glad there are no large mirrors in my house. Thank you Feng Shui, you have saved my pride once again.

Okay, back to the dream. I lost inches, weight, the slight redness around my nose, and basically every other flaw I could count about myself. Just like that. You won't even recognize me the next time we see each other. I will be wearing a slinky dress with spike heels and I will have long, silky hair tied in a bun. And a rose in my teeth. Ole!

press play. g