Schadenfreude at its finest.

Goldie HellCat and the Three Wrong Turns

2006-12-08T15:33:00.000-08:00

That night in the little town of Irvine, Cal, the Chipotle was all aglow with holiday spirit. The children were nestled, snug in their post-modern Danish titanium chairs, in hopes that their nanny would soon be there with a Nantucket Nectar. Goldie and HellCat were pretty cozy themselves, continuing an already hour-and-a-half long conversation about things like vision quests, working out, the Holocaust, and rescuing dogs. Things were going well.

See, this wasn't just any night. Although these two women knew each other and had even ventured outside separately for the same social event, it marked the first time they were alone together. "What's the big deal?" you ask, as you eat your Tofutti Cutie and scratch your left leg. Well, the answer is this: these two women had a lot of things in common...but one thing in particular. The elephant that had occupied their proverbial room for some time was all growns up, and needed to be addressed.

They had both had sex with the same man. And HellCat was still dating that very same man.

Yeah, I know I heard a gasp from the women in the audience. Dudes, you are wondering why this is a problem. Have you ever seen Melrose Place or some other Aaron Spelling show? You can see it practically once an episode there. Women are not built to be friends. They live in a world of competition and solitude--yes, even though they seem to travel in packs and are always talking, they are mostly alone in their soul. Women, please join your humble narrator in saying, "Thank you, instinct!"

Anyway, when one "loses" the battle, well, that's when bitches have catfights in the pool.

But Goldie and HellCat were different. These two women could see that this shared man they had in common was wonderful and has wonderful taste. So that must mean they are both wonderful and should find a third woman to make a Wonderful Triumverate, you dig?

That doesn't mean there wasn't a transition phase to actually aligning with that idea, though. They had just kind of thought it separately and sat back and waited. That night, as they chomped on their fajita burritos, they knew that this was the time to get sappy. The warm, tugsten-y lights seemed to cradle them as they shared their admiration for each other. They agreed that the other was super, and that they should be friends, because super people do super things.

The 2 pioneers of female friendship agreed not to discuss any actual information regarding the more intimate times (as neither one could imagine comparing penis notes or discussing that one cute thing he does when he...etc). They smiled, made eye contact, and got back in the car to see the Death Cab show. History was made.

Their journey continued, as they thought they were a mere 500 feet from their destination. However, the magical intranet site of Google Maps led them astray. After several turns and one trip to the gas station, they made it to the general vacinity of the University of California at Irvine. Then the dark cloud that they thought had dissipated returned. Where in the good Lord's name were they?? There were no signs in this land, only lonely, desolate patches of grass and an occasional beer car in the gutter.

They officially renounced Google Maps, asserting that it was no better than MapQuest or Yahoo Maps, despite its user-friendly interface and satellite-view option. They shook their fists at the sky until finally, finally some sorority girls showed them the way. When they pulled up to the ONLY place on campus that they, as visitors, were allowed to park, they were hustled for seven dollars from the parking attendant.

"Well, that's just insulting huffed HellCat, as she magically morphed into her mother. She rummaged in her satchel and pulled out seven dollars in pennies.

Or at least she wished it was in pennies.

Goldie magically aged too, because as everyone waited in uncomfortable silence for HellCat to get her monies out, she huffed, "You know, this place is really hard to find." And the parking attendant, some 19-year-old kid standing in the bitter cold, shrugged his be-hoodied shoulders and said, "Yeah, it confuses me too."

The two women, stunned by his acquiescence, de-aged 60 years and shook it off. The show was great. They danced together and silently judged the pre-teens taking pictures on their cell phones. They enjoyed the music. It was a lovely night.

And that's the story of How the Triumverate Began. Who wants cookies?

and milk. g

Hard-Boiled Egg or the Bathroom

2006-11-30T00:39:00.000-08:00

I have been drinking all night long and am swimming in my own thoughts. So, here I go, with my messy backstroke/quick keystroke.

My friend was recently caught masturbating on a plane. He was in the restroom and had unknowingly placed his arm on the wall. His staccato thumping against it had alerted the male flight attendant sitting in the jump seat, and he finally tapped out "Shave and a Haircut" on the wall to get him to stop. My friend just rapped back with the "Two bits" part and finished his business. Then, as he exited, he spent several minutes standing in the open bathroom doorway trying to locate his cell phone in his pants pockets...much to the chagrin of everyone in the coach bathroom/kitchen area.

His story whisked me down memory lane to a lonely trip from Dallas to Los Angeles, where a couple of bulky blankets and a sexy memory encouraged me to do the same thing. In my seat. No one was around to see me or scold me. But I still became my own hero again when I remembered it. Does that make me a junior member of the mile high club?

I am not the world's biggest exhibitionist. I generally enjoy the comfort, ease, and safety of a room in the home to do the deed in. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, whatev. All the same. When the location changes, so does the reaction. It's hot, but the adrenaline causes an altered response that usually makes me wish I had something I don't--small tube of lube, handi wipe. Something. But the sexiness of impromptu public naughtiness can't be beat...God bless the Japanese for proividing me such magnificent automobiles to house me and my caged animal tactics. Also, thanks to the builders of that one bathroom in the Valley, the landscapers of that Park, and the managers of that bar that averted their eyes. And that couple that pretended they didn't see the enthusiastic and well-matched game of tonsil hockey happening in their lobby.

Here are my Places I Hope to Have Sex in for 2007:
A wooded area (waterfall a bonus)
Hot Tub
Top of a Refrigerator
A Closet (how's that for symbolism)
A United Nations Summit
Alcatraz Bathroom
UCB Theater
Taj Mahal
The Container Store in Orange County
The Home Depot on Sherman Way

Now you know. I will post the progress. I promise, my darlings. It's the least I can do.

hit it. g

Boyfriend-Sanctioned Infidelity

2006-11-09T09:50:00.000-08:00

From the rooftops I shout, "I had sex with a stranger last night. And my boyfriend ENCOURAGED it!"

Welcome to my online confessional: home of grieving about death, concern over hygiene, scorn for celebutantes, and divulgence of sexual indiscretions.

Anyhow, I know you're wondering how this happened and how it can happen to YOU, too! Let me assure you, you'll find the answers here.

He showed up at my gate, and as I slowly drank in his image, it was clear what he wanted. I hesitated. Should I trust this man? Should I let him in the Treehouse and release all cautionary words my head was spewing forth?

I sighed, and opened the gate wider to allow him inside. I was no match for him. As we silently ascended the steps, I wondered what I was in store for. I could feel the energy between us, like an electric wire had just snapped and was dancing in the same puddle of water we were standing in. Except we weren't standing anywhere...we were walking towards my living room, kitchen...and bedroom.

The minute we walked in the door it was like someone had lit some sort of sex fire in the room and we had to Do It in order to put it out. I barely had time to turn on some fuck music, people. Seriously. In retrospect, the frenzied pace was a good thing, because if I had let my head have a chance to weigh in, it would have told me "Stop! This is not a good idea! The man you have committed yourself to will be maaad! And you might get herpes!"

My eyes, usually permanently closed in celebration of ecstacy, were wide open, still taking in the scene. Who was this man who had shown up on the Terrace with the intention of maneuvering past the gate and having his way with me? Who was he, with his baby-soft skin and shortly cropped hair?

Oh yeah. It was my boyfriend.

Oh man. This is embarassing. My bad. See, the thing is that My Pablo went from Kenny Loggins lookalike to Shorn Hipster in one night. It was such a dramatic change that I barely even recognized him. Whoops, my darlings. I promised you something I could not deliver. I guess after all this time I still can't figure out how to both have a boyfriend and nail someone else with his permission. Well, nuts. Sorry to have gotten your hopes up. That's just the way life is, kid.

lessons. g

Triumphant Return

2006-11-07T23:06:00.000-08:00

Let's get this out of the way.

I know I've been gone for a long time.

In fact, you're not even reading this the day I post it. You've stopped coming here regularly because you can't stand being let down anymore. The pain of seeing that entry from July 23rd over and over again hurts too much.

I get it. I've let you down, my darling.

The truth is, I have become bored with myself. Since last we spoke, here are the stats:

1: Bladder infection
14: Miles walked so far for Marathon training
1: New car purchased
1: Boyfriend still putting up with my shit/giving me shit to put up with
9: Families who have gotten a home thanks to the work of my department
1: New dog in the backyard that I can't stand
1: Friend Who Shot Himself
2: Toothbrushes used
2: Times I have done Capoeira, the Brazilian Martial Art

The car is great, I am excited for the marathon, I want to find a new loving home for this fucking animal, and a man who opened my life up to the possibility of Love is sitting on my coffee table in a sandwich baggie.

I feel fucked up.

I don't pay attention to what friends say anymore. I have little to no desire to teach and help people. I don't want to edit. I am helpless against the waves of nausea and revulsion that overcome me as I think about one of the only people in the world who knew me raw and unraveled's brains splattered across the wall of room 232 of the Days Inn in Little Armenia.

I think I'm entering the Anger Phase.

It makes me want to put on heavy eyeliner and take self-portraits.

All of a sudden I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I need company. Should I exercise or roll up in a ball in the corner and scream? Nothing matters the way it should. One lump or two? I feel like I'm underwater.

I can smell his deoderant. I remember when he took care of me during my very first anxiety attack. The time we played music for hours in his studio, attractively lit by Christmas lights. Our visit to the Statue of Liberty. That Thanksgiving where he wore the pink Ralph Lauren shirt. New Years Eve. The beach, both coasts. Mount Bonnell. Jack in the Box. The memories keep coming, like a faucet. They collect and leave me staring.

I wish it wasn't so late. I wish I didn't have to wake up so early. I wish he was still alive so I could see him sing one more time.

This is all so cliche. I hope you're not reading this. I hope you have bookmarked another blog, by some waiter who chronicles the tips he does and doesn't receive, or the one about the ever-changing hairstyles of Jessica Simpson. I hope you weren't looking for an epiphany, because all I have is something you have heard before from some other sad bastard who lost someone they cared about.

Put up your fists, and I'll just raise my glass. g

Darryl and Dogs

2006-07-23T22:03:00.000-07:00

Paul Giamatti is a national treasure. Like Don Cheadle, Ellen Burstyn, and occasionally Bobby Brown, that performer should be given a "Thank You, Thank You, Thank You" award of some kind. The award, although not honoring the concept of brevity with its title, is entirely necessary and the very least we can do.

Of course, you must have guessed by now that there is a "but" coming. I am ready to unleash a scathing diatribe re: Lady in the Water, the latest M. Night Shamalamadingdong flick. Well, come to think of it, I'm not really going to unleash it because it's not really a surprise to anyone. I'm just going to kind of put it out there, let it languish, and sleep easy knowing I finally updated my blog again.

The movie isn't that good, my darlings. But that doesn't mean I wasn't compelled. As I walked back to my suite in downtown Minneapolis, I pulled the hood of my "Devious Honey" hoodie up (even though it's about 78 degrees out) for fear of being molested by some northerner. I used the time with my blinders on to talk to myself about the film and what it was that kept me from leaving.

It is a wonderful bedtime story. It is about faith and beauty and hope. It has white eyelashes, koreans in tank tops, and Bob Balaban. Kind of a perfect formula for forking over my per diem.

Really, the only thing that turns it into a complete and total wash is the clunky, ridiculously executed telling of the bedtime story itself. I've been reading a lot about how Disney passed this one up, even after 4 movies with M. Night and apparently a lot of coddling. Before, I thought "Wow, Disney, missing the boat. Disney, elected mayor of Lametown," in that Rob Schneider "making copies" voice. But now my faith in Disney as an age-old fixture in the entertainment industry is restored. They were right. The narrative device reveal is too on-the-nose, too clumsy.

It fucks the whole movie up. Even the Wizard Giamatti can't save it. It collapses under the weight of its own ludicrous reveal.

Since I want to go to beddy-bye, I can't even begin to go into M. Night's role in this one and how he should be banned from the screen. Seriously, SAG should stand up. All of you guild members out there, put the heat on M. Night to quit making you look like jackasses. Everything that Albert Finney did, M. Night is undoing.

You don't need to see the movie. Rent Splash instead and pretend that just offscreen there is a big, green dog licking its chops and getting ready to pounce on Tom and Darryl. And you can do it in your jammies--a much better deal.

narf. g

My First Time

2006-07-11T10:12:00.000-07:00

In life, everything is a trade-off. I have learned this lesson again and again-- every upside has a down, every minus has its plus. And this morning I am reminded of that truism because apparently, every morning yoga class has its work shower.
Based on the rave reviews of a couple trusted sources in my office, I went to a bikram yoga class in the granola-smelling world of Silverlake. For the past month I have been feeling down and out, so much that I took a leave of absence from this column as well as my social life. Suddenly, the idea of doing something crazy to shake shit up was appealing. And if doing a series of 26 yoga poses twice in a 105-degree room isn’t crazy, then I don’t know what is.

This morning was my third class. It was the first time I made it through an entire one without feeling like I was going to throw up, pass out, and implode. At once. You might think this sounds terrible, but for ailing HellCat, it really wasn’t. It gave me something to work for. How dare the distant cousins Heat and Stretching think they had power over me! I would conquer them. And for each one of the three times I walked out, I left feeling wonderful. Fresh air pushing through my bloodstream, sweat pouring down the small of my back…and everywhere else…

It’s like a new lease on life.

Anyway, my trusted source at work that I will identify only as Rock Star told me that the morning class has the best teacher and the least heat. I considered it, knowing that she was right. But my vision tunneled down to a point that disturbed me. At the end of that tunnel?

Showering at work.

My office building has a workout room and a shower. The facilities are nice and private, and the bathroom is tucked away so that few employees use it. But my mother’s Victorian modesty hovers over me… and as a result, I don’t like showering where I eat. The prospect was daunting.

As I walked with a mock casualness towards the abandoned bathroom, I slowly swept my gaze from side to side, checking to see if anyone was looking or planning on following me. No one. I reached the bathroom door, and heard stirring inside.
“Oh, Christ.” I thought. “The Executive Producer of the show is probably in there, washing her hands. She’ll see my big bag and know that I am going to be removing all my clothes and allowing my vulnerable body to be washed in this office bathroom water. I will most certainly be fired.”

I opened the door, and some woman was in a stall. I had to be discreet. I slapped across the tile in my flip flops and slammed the door to the shower shut. Mission failed. I heard the woman go, “Ehhh?” in her stall. Then she flushed. I sat there, waiting in panicked silence. I tried to hide my feet so she couldn’t identify me.

Apparently this girl was examining every pore of her face in the mirror, because she was taking her time leaving. I was hunched in an uncomfortable position that I could only hold because my muscles were loose…but when she left I breathed a sigh of relief that shook the walls. I undressed rapidly, lathered, rinsed, repeated, and prayed that no one would walk into the bathroom while I was in mid-shower.

I kept picturing what was happening outside the door: a woman about 5’6”, 110 pounds, blonde haired and blue eyed, perfect California girl in every way, hearing the shower and looking at her co-workers like she had just smelled something foul.
“Who is taking a shower here?” she would say. Her co-workers would shrug and make the same face in an attempt to be more like the California girl. Being Armenian and wearing pantsuits, it wouldn’t work, but they tried nonetheless.

Cali girl would tiptoe up to the bathroom door, and all of a sudden she would bust in with a Polaroid camera and take a picture of me while I was rinsing yoga sweat out of the crack of my bottom. Overjoyed at her expose, she would flap the Polaroid wildly, not caring that flapping them makes no difference. She would take it back to whoever was listening—which would mostly be the people clearing out the offices of the Jamie Kennedy Experiment. She would proclaim “Look! This is the girl who showers here! She must be homeless, or maybe her family hates her and makes her leave the house before everyone is awake!” The Armenians would laugh, shaking the bell-bottomed cuffs of their pantsuits, and I would slink out of the shower, shamed forever.

I would immediately be fired, of course. Then, having no income, I would soon be found not at the Treehouse, but in the gutter of the Zankou chicken pointing my fingers in various directions and then grifting people for Parking Attendant Tips.
I was shocked when this didn’t happen. I toweled off, dressed, put my contacts in, and mussed my hair. A woman came in, said Good Morning, did her business, and left. She didn’t silently judge me at all. It was amazing!

Now I am considering only showering at my office. I always work out in the mornings, and it would save me both gasoline and water. In fact, maybe I'll just move in here. Get an air mattress, an electric blankie. I could use the water heater room as my personal storage, and eat the food at craft services for breakfast. Let's consider this a plan.
planned. g

Go For Guillermo

2006-06-16T09:07:00.000-07:00

There's nothing that I could really write that would do Guillermo justice. The fact is that he is an amazing man. He always managed to make me feel loved and taken care of. He made me laugh all the time. Just knowing that he was around comforted me.

I am stuck in Minneapolis, exhausted, with salt-soaked eyes, and have nothing inside of me to write with. So bear with me, Memo, because this is going to be one messy love letter. It all sounds so stupid, written in some blog on the internet. There's no poetry to it. But it's still how I feel, so that's something...

Remember when we filmed a video down in theater 7? You had a million other things to do, but instead made sure we had the right power cords, clip lights, and angle. You watched me setup the camera and asked me about filmmaking while you were eating all of our summer sausage and cheese, which was our only prop.

There was the time that we were discussing King Kong in the lobby...and you were saying that "it looks long, but I like the idea of a big monkey." It made perfect sense to me.

I remember discussing your concerns with your children and their safety while you were working. You said that your schedule stressed you out, but that you were going to make it work. Then you went on and on about your great kids, to the point where you were beaming. You made us all smile with you, even the people who had been at Guest Services for hours and wanted to kill themselves.

Every time I would come into the lobby, even if you were in the middle of business, you would excuse yourself, come over to me, give me a kiss and hug, and then walk back. You always managed to make me feel like I had a place in this world, somehow. If you weren't busy you would come back over and I would always ask, "Are they taking care of you at this place, Memo?" and you would wave your hand and say, "Oh, you know how they are sweetie. But it's always getting better."

When you would glide past the concession stand, you would always say something like, "Nice work, kids! Keep it up. Let's make ArcLight some more money! Mush, mush!" and then you would laugh all the way down the hallway.

You loved elbow milkings.

Remember when we drank beers on the ARC patio together that one summer night? I sighed happily and leaned back in my chair. "Good conversation, good friends," I said, and you added, "and free parking, my lovely."

I love you. I miss you already. And I won't forget you.

So Long, F*ckers

2006-06-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in the Fargo airport. I feel like, even though there are only four gates, that I have fought a battle to get here, into this weirdly bendable seat. My back is tired from carrying this laptop. My face is frowny. I am slightly chilled. And also, I have nothing to eat.

I just found out that our plane is late. I have a Mall of America to go to, goddamnit. Doesn't anyone in the north care about my feelings?!

I have never once complained about this "heightened security" farce that goes on in our airports. "As long as it keeps us safe," I always said. But today, TODAY, when I have a bag packed to the brim carefully and strategically placed dirty underwear, they want to go through my bags. They don't have an X-Ray here, since they live in Nowheresville, USA, and so they just unpack our bags, go through our stuff, and then send us on our merry way to their one of four gates.

They are going through my bags. They are moving the tripod that I had to shove between my Coca-Cola shirt and mint green sweater so it wouldn't disturb the hard drive that sat two layers of clothes beneath it.

There are DV tapes jammed in the corners lengthwise. My swimsuit is cradling all of my cables, lovingly and with a spandex 'tude. These people have no idea the level of intricacy that went into packing these bags. Plus, they're touching my unmentionables. Touching them. The cute little boyshorts and sheer hipsters that I bring so I won't feel so far away from home. Some gross guy with grease under his fingernails saying things like "Uff'da" and "You bet'cha" knows me almost as well as my boyfriend.

I am super cranky. These people are setting off my OCD. I just want to get to the mall and stress-shop.

I have been told that I must go to the General Mills Experience. Apparently at this magical place they mix any kinds of GM cereal that one desires. This intrigues me. But I am having trouble picking my cereals right now.

frankenberry? g

Weider than Woodchippers

2006-06-12T18:16:00.000-07:00

There's something weird about Fargo.

I'm not talking about the abundant woodchippers in everyone's yards. It's something else.

None of the doors open right.

Fargo, North Dakota apparently exists on some particular latitude and longitude where every businesses' exterior door refuses to open without a fight. Perhaps Fargo is tilted just so it is at a perfect 45-degree angle to the Earth's axis, and therefore it nearly takes the jaws of life to get through every single goddamn door in the town.

When you are finally able to wrench a door open using two hands and a lot of hope, it closes so fast that it usually catches your foot in its ruthless grip.

This is every door here, people. The hotel, the stores, the bars, the Dairy Queen, the bingo parlour, and even the Kinkos.

Every door.

I can feel the Grim Reaper hovering over my shoulder. He waits as I approach a business and starts to giggle softly, so that it is but a whisper in the wind. Then, it gets louder as I pull and yank and groan. One of these days, he's going to swing his sickle as I attempt to enter an Applebees and that will be it for me. You can have the new skirt I bought at Target if you want...

it's super cute. g

Northern Lights and Aggressive Little Girls

2006-06-09T21:16:00.000-07:00

I spent today traveling to see our neighbors in the northern part of the country...yes, the place you wish YOU were right now, North Dakota. Bismarck, to be exact, where men are men and women look generally disdainful with their Aqua-Netted bangs.

I am flying Northwest, whose airline abbreviation is NWA. The same moniker as Niggaz With Attitude. Coincidence? No. As I realized this, the little tiny blonde girl in front of me (one of two, actually) turns around and says, "Hello. I am very excited to be going to summer camp." Her sister turned around and stuck her head above the seat, too. "So am I!" she squealed. "We get to drink water flavored with LIME." She and her sister slap five and she sat back down. The first girl was still looking at me.

I got suspicious. The older gentleman next to me couldn't take the sharp, piercing scrutiny of hber tiny blue eyes and actually moved back two rows. I'm a closer, though, baby, so bring it on.

She looked at me, licked her lips, and said, "Knock knock."

I looked at her, incredulous. Really? A knock-knock joke? Aren't those a little passe? Like, aren't 7-year-olds snorting coke and fucking people without protection these days?

Instead of sharing this line of thought with her I said "Who's there?"

"Lemon."

"Lemon who?"

She sighed, disgusted over how clueless I was that I didn't already know the punchline.

"Lemon ORANGE." Then she burst into maniacal laughter for a solid 60 seconds. I just sat and stared, not wanting to make any movements that might upset her.

She stopped abruptly and looked at me again. "This is my lamb. This is only the second flight she's ever been on, and I've had her at least 10 years." Once again, this girl is seven. Eight, max.

"No kidding? Does she like to fly?"

"It's hard to say," she said, "But I know for sure that she likes iced tea."

Well whaddya know. You learn something new every day.

"Iced tea, huh? I like Diet Coke."

"That's nice. Shake her hand." She thrust the stuffed lamb over the seat into my face, little lamb leg outstretched and waiting. I raised an eyebrow and thought about this. Was I going to be punished for not obeying? Probably. This girl has strong legs to kick with and strong vocal cords to express anger...

I shook the lamb's hand/paw/hoof.

"That's all." She turned and sat down, immediately launching into a hand-slapping game with her sister. I had been tossed aside like the original Becky on Roseanne.

Not one more word was spoken to me for the rest of the flight. I was half relieved, half hurt.

This is going to be a weird trip. g

Northern Life and Annoying Indians

2006-06-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

"Life is different there in the Dakotas. Normal rules do not apply."

This was an ominous outburst from a co-worker of mine, while we were discussing my approaching trip to the lovely northern US. I asked her what she meant exactly, and she heaved a sigh that came from years of being burdened with this knowledge. Then she continued...

"Years ago, I was working as a producer for a TV show that was filming up in North Dakota. They hired a couple of local PAs to work with us. At least, I figured that someone told them to be there, because I certainly didn't hire them but there they were, ready to NOT work.

One of them was a Native American woman who was literally about 50 years old. Every time I asked her to do something, she would ruminate on it for about 15 minutes instead of actually doing it. It was like she was busy writing the next great American novel in her head and only stopped occasionally to mosey around the set. I've never seen someone try to look so spiritually aware while distributing Lays potato chips to extras on-set.

One day, I was trying to convey how important it was that she be faster in completing tasks. I felt bad, but this was just the way it needed to be and I was trying to get that across in a professional way. My message was not getting through to her, and I got more and more frustrated.

Then, without warning, this woman starts digging through her deerskin bag. She brings out some sage, sets it on fire, and blesses the room. Then she waves it in my general direction and tells me it's supposed to calm me down. This only succeeded in making me irate and I started to yell.

She wouldn't stop burning that sage and chanting. So, I finally just took a deep breath and screamed 'Fuck the sage! Kathie Lee needs her jacket NOW!'"

My co-worker stopped her story for a moment, letting the effect sink in. Then, as she stroked our office chihuahua's head, she muttered, "She had a heart attack at Mount Rushmore. I don't know why. She wasn't even running up the stairs."

Don't leave the reservation next time. g

The daVinci Code Can Suck It

2006-05-20T11:47:00.000-07:00

If you think that for one second I am going to sit in a movie theater for over 2 hours just to see that tres adorable French lady run around and break codes with a creepily long-haired Tom Hanks, you're fucking nuts.

I want to see explosions and animated animals eating garbage. Also, I am interested in seeing how people deal with being stranded on an island after a plane crash, as well as how my favorite modern day Nancy Drew will solve the murder of her best friend.

So, summer is here, and it's all about popcorn in the dark in conjunction with a heavily used Netflix account.

In fact, I can't even write any more because I am busy planning my media discovery.

Check back with you soon. g

Protons and Neutrons Hate Me

2006-05-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

This is me losing my mind. See me? Sitting here, in an empty office, hungry but unable to eat, with only half-applied makeup on and a bra that totally does not match this outfit? My mind is blown, my darlings, and it is because of my living environment.

I keep crashing hard drives. This is the second one in a week. Is there static in my room that has decided to wage war on my computer equipment? Perhaps it has set up some sort of kamikaze run once a day, and editing/bill-paying be damned, I am powerless against it.

I am getting to know the data recovery man very well (much like my tow truck driver, Frank). The data-recovery specialist's name is Tony, he drives a red Scion and likes it except for the cupholders, and has a nice girlfriend who lives in the valley. She is nice, except for several obsessive-compulsive behaviors about dishwashing and dog hair.

THIS IS MORE THAN I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT TONY.

I don't understand why I am being karmically punished. Was it because of the homeless guy I accidentally laughed at last week when he begged me to share my Baja Fresh? Or perhaps the blind child I stood in front of silently while she called out "Who's there? Who's there?"

Nah. It must be my power strip.

Anyway, I cancelled all my social events this week except for ONE in order to recover the data from the last hard drive that died. I was editing, capturing, watching Veronica Mars, and praying. My prayers went unanswered. I spent 9 hours total recapturing work that I just lost for the second time. I believe this is the exact situation "Wtf?!" was created for.

So, if you never see me again, my darlings, it is because I am caught within my own personal purgatory, capturing, losing, and re-capturing data for the rest of time. No more movies, oral, or trips to Disneyland. Nope, just me, sitting alone, brow furrowed and sexily lit by the blue light of my soon-to-fail external drive.

It's been nice knowing you. g

An Anecdote From my Man-Friend

2006-05-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

There's a guy who comes to the Store open mic every week who calls himself Boon Shak-a-lak-a. He is homeless, black and gay. He wears a necklace whose beads are basically three-inch wooden rhino statues. His clothes are scrawled, everywhere, in permanent marker, with bizarre black-power and gay-rights and I'm-insane slogans of his own devising. I've never seen him perform because the Store BANNED HIM; he can sign up for the list and watch the show, but he is never ever picked.

Yesterday I overheard him saying to another crazy homeless open micer: "I don't see why people think Dane Cook is so funny."

I guess there's a comforting lesson in that; as you fall into madness, your good taste will be the last thing to go.

Hollywood: Land of Ass

2006-05-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm having a "Calgon take me away" kind of week. As I was driving to work, I neede to restore balance by looking at the world through Hellcat-vision glasses (with naughty librarian frames). I was imagining a perfect life. For instance, I passed Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles and remarked on how lucky I am that it is actually good for my heart.

Adam Corolla was on the radio, and I thought about the time I got to open-palm slap him one time, just for fun.

I was not driving my Jetta in this morning fantasyland, either. In fact, I was cruising down the road in a Lexus SC430 that is renowned for being the most efficient hybrid ever.

I was rocking the Dreamworld today.

That is, until the butt showed up.

A small, faded red hatchback was parked on the side of the road. A man was crouched on the street next to it, frantically looking for something he dropped down near the gas pedal. He must have really needed that 'lude or whatever it was that he had dropped, because he was able to completely ignore the breeze that was whipping past his entirely exposed posterior.

I was particularly mortified because his ass was really red and chapped. This was a residential area, for chrissakes. There are children who live 25 feet away who have some innocence left. They cling to it desperately enough, they don't need Joe SchmuckButt ruining their whole year of kindergarten in one, fleeting search for an eight ball remnant.

It rubbed me the wrong way. Not the ass itself, thank god, but just its presence.

This reminded me of a time recently when I was on my way home from the gym and saw another ass. It belonged to a homeless man pushing a cart filled with newspaper, platform shoes, and chicken wire. I shrugged it off, assuming that he was on his way to the homeless shelter to create a life size papier mache drag queen that he would bring to life using a toaster, some vaseline, and a 1/2 cup of Tang. No big deal.

As the memory passed, I remembered incredulously that I chose to live here. I never saw shit like this is Austin. Adults only showed their bottoms when they were wearing assless chaps to the gay bar, or while running naked through the capitol building. You know, places where kids are terrified and keep their faces buried in their lunchboxes, only stealing a glance at the outside world when they hear their name called by a tall, shaven-headed lesbian friend of their mom's from the vegan co-op.

Apparently my Rosy-Hellcat-Imagination Glasses weren't strong enough for AssMan. Until next time, nefarious villain...

zounds. g

That's Certainly a First

2006-05-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

Picture it: Thursday night, 11ish. Late night fun runs at a premium for both me and my man friend, as we both have to rise early. I am tired after a long, nerve-wracking week, and especially after an interesting-but-late-running play. He tells me to come over, as I am only a few blocks away, because he has an idea of how to snap me out of my mini-funk (or funk-ette, as the easterners say).

I keep him on the phone for fear of One: getting lost in Silverlake, and B: to stay awake. As I round the corner to his door, he is waiting for me. My Sexy Spidey Sense is tingling, so I make sure to hit the bathroom and pull a Clark Kent from Working Girl to Sex Kitten Who Can Save the World With One Handjob.

You can picture what happens next. My week and my exhaustion slowly slip away from me, as we are in the throes and he is really giving me the Executive Star Treatment. Then, in a moment of femininity, I say "You have great ideas, cowboy" (Yes, this is how I talk in bed). "Got any more?" There is a beat, and I realize how ridiculous my question is. I would be the only one out of the two of us prepared to utter some kind of dissertation on naughty naughty sex stuff. My man is busy and the brain-feeeding blood is locacted south of his cranium. So I giggle. Then he giggles. Someone says something about stream of consciousness, and we are off and running.

"Apple."

"Uh...Thursday."

"Canteen."

""Metairie, LA."

"Peanut Butter."

"Motorcycle."

And then it happened. I said it. I don't know where it came from, nor do I know where it went after it left my mouth. All I know is that he was still inside me when I said "Knight Rider."

I know for sure that that hasn't happened before. We broke into peals of laughter that shook the Tularosa Manor. Upon revisiting that moment, however, I feel a little uneasy. Do I have a Hasselhoff thing? Was "Baywatch" next? Or "SpongeBob Square Pants?" Do I have to buy his album(s) now? Does this officially make me German?

I don't know.

I think I'm gonna need your support on this one.

kit. g

The End of an Era

2006-05-05T16:35:00.000-07:00

The good news is that I got a gig that will keep me from worrying about my bills, my rent, my savings account, and my addiction to shopping.

However, it marks the end of my free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky year of freelance. I find myself sitting here, hoping to make my last day as a free employee something special, but I am rooted to the futon feeling a sense of loss instead.

Do you remember, dear friend, how we could get together for lunch in the middle of the day, without worry of how long we spent talking about our boyfriends and moving and problems with my dog? Or the time we snuck out to see two movies in one day, right in the middle of the week? Or how about the trips to the museum and the beach? I held meetings, ate good food, got it on, and managed to escape whenever time allowed. I was a slave to no one on those days, living life and answering only to myself and the occasional deadline. It was a wonderful year.

Biggie, you were right. Mo' money, mo' problems.

I am young and vibrant, living life to its fullest, and I managed to beat the system for awhile. But no more. It's back to direct deposit and packed lunches. Associate producers and visits from the suits. Vacation? What's that? 6-day trips in the middle of April? It will all seem like a fairytale.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy for the opportunity. I feel like the next part of my life is beginning. I am cautiously stepping through the Door That Leads to The Rest of My Life, and I am excited and hopeful. But boy, it sure was nice to play this game by my own rules.

I just keep telling myself that the world of production is one that encourages lots and lots of breaks. Shows last for several weeks, then life is quiet again. You made enough money to go to Prague for 8 weeks. Then, back to the daily grind. Win, lose. Win again, and back to losing.

I guess losing destitution is kind of nice. I guess I could be winning here. It's not so hard to envision it that way. In fact, the folks over there all seem to be so nice and the job seems so tailored to me...Yeah, that's right. It all works out the way it's supposed to, Hellcat. Chin up. Some people in the world are homeless and have no marketable skills. Also, some people have monkey hearts and others have tumors. I don't know where I'm going with this line of reasoning but it's helping somehow.

But the point is that I will no longer be available for mid-week debauchery until after 6PM. But I will be able to afford that plastic surgery! So I have that going for me.

i love la. g

That's the Last Time I Go To Torrance

2006-04-27T08:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I woke up extra early (which I assure all of you working stiffs is actually early) to get out of my comfy bed, meticulously clean my teeth, and eat a liquid breakfast. I then put a snack in my bag, grabbed my Google Map printout, and jumped in the ole Graham Bingum. I was on a mission, my darlings.

I was going to find out once and for all why my gums are bleeding.

See, some of you may recall how 2006 has been the "Year of the Tooth" for me. I am getting these puppies cleaned, straightened, and prepared for their ascent into the last two thirds of my life. Knock on wood. Anyway, the little pearlies are only doing "Fair to Good," and that is not okay with the girl who was known around her 'hood as Golden Mouth, aka Me.

A friend had told me about his dentist. Back in the day, his gums weren't doing so well, so they had done deep cleaning on his roots and even cut some of his gums out of his mouth (which isn't as uncommon as it might sound). Well, needless to say, shortly after these majorly painful events, his gums' health went south AGAIN. At the end of his rope, he went to see "Doc Torrance." Through alternative care, the Doc saved my friend's mouth from ruin.

I figured this was just the guy for me.

I drove and I drove, listening to morning shows on the radio and the White Stripes. Google Maps failed me, I got lost, I got found, and eventually I made it to the office to see the bright and shiny faces of his assistants.

Well, my darlings, let me warn you that this is the point at which my blog takes a sharp turn. I turned on the news this morning, like I do every morning, and I was treated to the sight of a black Nissan Maxima being followed by 11 police cars. The guy was a murder suspect, possibly having killed someone in that same area.

Then I noticed that I was watching the Nissan drive the same route as I went yesterday.

See, I got a funny feeling from Torrance, and now I know why. It turns out that murderers hang out there and clog up the freeways. As I was driving yesterday, I was thinking how many people get shot while driving on the 110. The voice kind of sounded like my mom, and I made sure to comfort my inner mom and tell her that everywhere is unsafe, really. With so many people in this city, you can't really hide from less-than-stellar encounters.

Anyway, I am still watching this on TV and thanking my guardian angel that this wasn't happening yesterday. My inner mom is going crazy with "I told you sos" because now they are exchanging shots. Things are getting crazy, and I am not excited about going back to the Doctor's office.

Maybe, in a truly magnificent LA move, I can get the Doc to come to me. Huh. Now there's an idea. We can hang out in the Treehouse and watch Greg The Bunny. I bet he'd like that, he seems like a Seth Green fan.

By the way, he took a look at my mouth chemistry under a microscope. He scraped off some plaque and then showed me what it looked like magnified many times. As luck would have it, I am a rare case that this semi-retired man has only seen once or twice at most...my mouth is not plagued with bad bacteria, but has an abundance of candida in it.

I am a Yeasty-Mouth. And if any of you ever call me that in person I will kick your ass from here to Timbuktu. I am going for truth in prose, here, so don't discourage my intimacy with you and some stranger who finds me on the internet.

They just shot the guy, by the way. It doesn't look fatal. But he'll probably wish it was eventually.

Whether it's being told you have killer yeast in your gums or getting shot, it seems like only bad things happen in Torrance. Also, the little Redrum kid in the Shining's last name was Torrance. See? Going back is going to take a lot of inner strength.

pray for me. g

Cruel Juice

2006-04-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

I read somewhere that at some point in ancient times, two guys were sitting next to cranberry vines, sunning themselves and drying their loin cloths (it was laundry day). Their names were Stan and Garp, and the conversation was something like this:

Stan: I am so sick of other people being on the planet. Aren't you, Garp?
Garp: Garp.
S: Yeah, totally. Hey, check it out. Berries!
G: Garp.

They eat some berries.

S: Oh, Jesus! These taste horrible! These have got to be poisonous. Are you dead yet?
G: Garp.
S: Me neither. But they sure taste awful. Hey! That gives me a great idea.
G: Garp?
S: We should press these into a liquid and give it to people to drink. It will taste so terrible that they will kill themselves, and we'll have the whole planet to ourselves!!
G: Garp!

And so, cranberry juice was created. What Stan and Garp didn't know is that some people have a taste for horrendously bitter liquids and actually seek it out. Even people who don't care for it don't kill themselves, they just mix it with vodka and get wasted to wash away the bitter tincture left in their souls from ingesting that Devil Juice.

Unfortunately, it serves a useful purpose. The highly acidic quality of the juice creates an environment that is unpleasant for bacteria, which keeps it from adhering to urethral walls and causing trouble. So, for those people whose urethra is prone to such adhesion, cranberry juice is a necessary evil.

I am one of those people. And sadly, I am also one of those people Stan was counting on to want to kill themselves after drinking this nasty, nasty juice.

So, basically, Stan is a dick. I like Garp better, because he focused on the cranberries' medicinal properties but didn't want to punish people with lousy urethras for needing it. He created cranberry pills. Sadly, they are too slow-acting for a gal like me and I am forced to drink the juice. Every time I open my refrigerator door, I see that little bottle of juice sitting there, mocking me. "I'm one hundred percent PAIN, Grae...er, I mean juice. Drink me, you essentially have no choice!"

I am going to smash the bottle into tiny little bits when I'm better. Right now, I have to go take another swig. The only good thing about this is that all this bathroom time means that I have caught up on my Entertainment Weekly reading.

bright side. g

*editor's note: I would have made this more scathing, but I had to abandon it for the potty too many times. Seriously, mean it up a little in your head, and that's what I wanted to write.*

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin, Keep them Tee Shirts Rollin'

2006-04-15T14:54:00.000-07:00

Like a stick-thin aspiring actress poised above a SkyBar toilet bowl on a Saturday night, the Treehouse is purging. Ridding itself of the clothes, papers, bills, shoes, and pointless knick-knacks that have fattened it up beyond the limits of superstardom. Now it sits, thinner and content, confident and ready to go on that next audition. What were we talking about again?

I woke up Wednesday and realized that my work was being affected by the bad feng-shui of things. The closets, filled to the brim with credit card applications and wedding announcements and endless jumbles of plastic hangers from the 99-cent store were beginning to take on a life of their own. I could swear that as I sat at my little table, clicking away on my laptop, I could hear my own shoes talking shit about me, while my photographs in boxes made fun of my fear of the dark. The things that my poorly-hung skirts said I can't even write in a public forum. It was getting bad.

So, I stuck my finger down the throat of the Treehouse and hit the gag reflex hard. Everything was in the center of the room, begging for my attention. I must tell you that it almost did me in. I jogged down Memory Lane, through grassy fields of what used to be, while occasionally stumbling into the briar patch of my own past. It wasn't always pretty.

But I made it. Now my drawers have organizers in them, and everything from undies to socks to jammies are rolled facing upward. That way, I don't have to sort through everything to get to what I want, disturbing it in the process. I can see everything I own now, and it is either rolled or hung.

And now, here I sit, in the middle of a sparkling clean apartment. I know that when I open the closet doors I will be met with neatly lined up drawers and filed papers, and that they will be polite and let me finish my work. No more interruptions to declare that I am unfit to exist on the planet next to people like Martha Stewart and Christopher Lowell. Only good things will come from this, and it was worth the blood that trickled out of my left ear at that one point (when I discovered that the closets were full but I hadn't done my laundry yet).

I encourage all of you to vomit out what is dragging you down. Get rid of those bank statements from '00, or the socks you've had since you were 13. Just do it. Because just like that starlet over on Sunset, it will rejuvenate you and allow you to sit with that guy who says he is a "producer" on the next Orlando Bloom flick and not hate the fact that his cock will be in your mouth at the end of the night.

What were we talking about again? g

We Mustn't Lose This

2006-04-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

As the days pass, I find myself wishing I knew what I was in for. What triumphs and failures are going to make me into the person I will become? Who will I meet, what will I learn, what will I look like? But mostly, what ingredients will sprinkle themselves into my life that will make me into an Old Casserole?

How can I avoid making the mistake so many before me made? What thing happens that makes people forget how good rain feels, or how it isn't the end of the world if you miss a Christmas party to snuggle in front of a fire with the one you love? Why do sunsets become less impressive? Where does the magic go?

I have no idea. No one else seems to, either.

Today, my days are filled with inhaling deeply and loving sunshine. I cherish the feeling of crisp cotton against my skin. My man's beard provides calm and giddiness all at the same time when it brushes against my face...and laughter comes so easily. But I worry that it can't be like this forever.

The worst part is that one day we just wake up and it's gone. All of a sudden, we talk too much and kiss too little. There are things to be done, and your face in those old pictures seem like strangers. Is writing the secret? Can I keep a journal to remind me that life is too short to ever NOT walk in the park and play with flowers? Make a video? Paint?

Who knows. I just find myself sitting here wishing that I could avoid what I fear is inevitable.

concerned. g

You Get What You Pay For

2006-04-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

I have spent a great deal of time lately on craigslist. I've got apartments to move into, jobs to apply for, Dodgers tix to buy, and pets to be trained. But the biggest thing I'm looking for while on the site? Laughs. And since I didn't find them in the "Computer services" category, I decided to look in the "Casual encounters" section.

That's where the funny was hiding.

Reading all of the posts from the city's finest can really gloss over the small glitches in my day. I now know that if I ever fall upon hard times, there are plenty of pre-op transsexuals out there, who, for a nominal fee, will keep me company. Also, there are lots of hot Latinos, well-hung black guys, and average-looking men on business trips who are eagerly awaiting my *vulgar phrase removed by BlogCensor.com*

The Casual Encounters section embodies everything about the internet that I love to hate. Since the beginning of time, every technological gift that has been bestowed upon humanity has been quickly turned into a new way for us to screw each other or see genitalia. Craigslist started as a cool way to find things going on in San Fran...and now, it's about cool ways to find things in people's pants.

But let's shift out of history and move into punctuation and grammar. The 'net is taking away our already-scant abilities to write properly. The smiley face is now a part of our English lexicon, for Pete's sake. And on top of this, do people honestly respond to ads that repeatedly misspell "sexual" as "sexaul," and request oral sex as "hot BJ luvvv cum over to my place?!"

This is a whole different kind of education here. I have learned that "Generou$$ men" are ones who pay for sex, and that people who ask for "discreet encounters" are married, not the sex they say they are, or people posting their friend's pic online as a joke.

Some people are "sexually fursturated," which I can only assume is some kind of botched circumcision. Others implore the reader to respond "only if you are a hot little slutty girl," which is silly because that kind of title is purely someone's opinion. And the rest are just expletive-filled cries for company. Animal instinct at it's finest.

Reading this section makes me glad that I have a nice boyfriend (but not TOO nice), and zero desire to participate in risky sexual behavior. But the laughs, my darlings, are a 100% DD-HIV free.

click. g

I Already Have a Long Distance Carrier, Thanks

2006-04-04T22:38:00.000-07:00

While visually devouring the pages of my Entertainment Weekly, I stopped to look at an AT&T ad. A smug-looking woman with an afro and her arms crossed across her chest is standing looking directly into the camera. Standing next to her is a Benji dog on a leash. Based on her workout clothes, I am led to assume that this dynamic duo was out for a walk in the woods, but Mommy stopped because she had something important to tell America.

Her words are written in childlike cursive in a big pink heart to the left of her no-nonsense face. And I quote:

"The World According to Toni:
Before I get serious with a guy, I like to make him watch Hollywood movies from the 50s and 60s. In those flicks men were suave and knew how to treat a woman like a lady. So this is my test: if he falls asleep, I dump him. If he shows some interest, he might get a second date. If he wants to watch it again, well then I know that's my man!"

I'm not going to beat around the bush with you, my darlings. Toni is a fucking idiot. Here's the thing: this is just an ad, but you and I both know that there are real women out there that do this kind of shit. Is it a mystery to them why the only intimate relationship in their life is between them and frozen dairy products?

First of all, just because a man needs a nap during your shitty Frankie and Annette popcorn flick has nothing to do with his likeliness to open doors and throw his jacket over mud puddles for you. People need sleep, for chrissakes, and it's creepier for him to try and stay awake than it is for him to get some shut eye. Have you ever seen someone fighting to stay up? It's only cute when 3-year-olds do it. For the rest of us, it's lame and kind of sad. Apparently Toni is willing to pass up what could have been one of the greatest relationships of her life because her beau needed a nap.

"If he shows some interest, he might get a second date." This is exactly the kind of calculating, judgemental bullshit that keeps us from finding happiness and gives chicks a bad name. It would have been more accurate for her to say, "If he passes my brilliantly scientific test and I deem him worthy of my AMAZING company, I MIGHT decide to let him bask in my own personal brand of magic." Toni can be as superficial as she wants, but her man had better be ready to treat her with genuine TLC, or else. What an arrogant way to look at life.

The last thing this daft cow has to say is that her perfect man is an obessive-compulsive whack job moviegoer. If I just finished a flick and MY man wanted to watch it again immediately, I would wrinkle my nose and furrow my brow in confusion. If that flick was Roman Holiday or Barefoot in the Park, you can multiply that frown/furrow times three. Essentially, with this step, Toni has narrowed her partnership options down to exactly what she said she didn't want in the first place. Crazy men who watch movies over and over again are probably not going to be the best ones to fulfill all her deeply spiritual Relationship Requirements like looking good in a suit and being good kissers.

I bet Benji strains on his leash. I wonder if Toni realizes that the minute that thing comes off, Benji is running as fast as his furry legs will carry him to the Land of No Crazy Women Owners. Not even an animal could withstand the pain from seeing the effects of Toni's Rules for Successful Mating.

So AT&T, you have successfully made me glad YET AGAIN that I no longer depend on either you or SBC for any type of phone services. I'm glad I cancelled my cell phone contract back in '02, and I am ecstatic that I use Vonage for all my home phone needs. I'm also glad Vonage sued you in 2004. And as for Toni? Somebody find her reset button, because her wires are crossed.

growl. g

Survival Lesson #54a: What To Do During Another Power Outage in the Middle of your SECOND Colonic

2006-04-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

Get a new Colon Hydrotherapist that pays their bills and/or doesn't work in a shoddily powered area.

nuff said. g

Survival Lesson #54: What To Do During a Power Outage in the Middle of your Colonic

2006-03-28T17:08:00.000-08:00

So you're laying there, on the funny doctor's table with your legs comfortably bent and a pillow under your neck. Your head is turned down and toward the left so you can see the drainage tube and all the yuckiness it carries away from your bod. You are sitting in a disturbing puddle of water (and unfortunately, fecal matter). The tube of death is inserted into your rectum, and you are unable to feel like a normal person anymore because, well, normal people avoid situations like these and here you are paying someone to do it to you.

A desktop fountain runs gaily across the room. The radio is on, reminding you of what people on the outside are doing while you are taking an extended dump and ridding your body of compacted, toxic doo doo. The lights are dim. The machine is humming.

And then the power goes out.

You frantically turn the knobs that regulate water flow. Who can guarantee that when the power comes back on, it won't accidentally send a blast of water all the way through your intestines and out your mouth? No one, that's who. So the knobs go to "off" and the silence is deafening.

The tube is still in there, you know. In your bottom.

You're kind of afraid to pull it out. It took some effort to get in, and once it's out, the cleanup must begin, so you figure that you might as well wait it out and ignore it as best you can. There is no casual return to Tube Town.

The fluorescent lights flicker. The machine sputters. Hope rises in your chest. And then everything goes black again. Why isn't your trusty hydrotherapist coming in to see how you are? You don't know. Is that snickering you hear?

Try and think back to the first time you kissed a boy, or the morning after the first time you did it. Those are happy memories. Go back there, where the air was clean and bright, and the taste of a hamburger lights up your tastebuds. Yeah, go there. And while you're at it, think about when you graduated college and everyone went out for dinner afterwards, or that road trip you took with someone you had a crush on. What about your first paycheck, first homecoming dance dress, or when you sold out an entire movie theater with a film festival you put on? Think of those things. Not being in the dark, with a scary tall machine looming over you, and an unsettling presence in your behind.

Begin to count the dots on the ceiling. Plan out the rest of your day. Examine your manicure. Slowly try to relax all the muscles in your face, one by one. Hum an old spiritual, preferably "Old Man River." Try and recite as many lines as you can from The BIg Lebowski, or maybe Maid to Order starring Ally Sheedy. Try and put a finger on why Pomeranians look better in little purses than Chihuahuas do. Have a fake conversation with the Dalai Lama. Or, recount an actual one.

Suddenly, the lights come on. The machine whirs to life and you know you can turn the water on. You take your time, because you know that the minute your intestines start filling with that 99.9% pure water, life will get all crampy and icky again. And for a brief, shining moment, you were having a wonderful time.

Sigh. g

That's Mrs. Pilates To You

2006-03-20T20:37:00.000-08:00

I am in love with a machine.

You heard me right, my darlings. Now I know how Helo on Battlestar Galactica feels, or what it's like to have Vicki, the little girl from Small Wonder, living in a corner of my room. Sort of.

My new pilates machine is here. The first one, at a reasonable price on a payment plan, broke the second time I used it. The combination of my strength and height stretched the elastic cords to uselessness. Heartbroken and gaining inches, I surrendered to one of the foremost dealers of pilates equipment in the world. Then, without a payment plan or low cost, I made the purchase.

It is heavenly.

This is the first piece of exercise equipment I have ever purchased, and I believe it might be my last. It was a cinch to put together, glides smoothly on its track, and does everything I want. I even have the accessories I need to make some real body magic happen. Goodbye, waist! So long, saddlebags! It's been nice knowing you, triceps!

If you want to come over, we can have a pilates party. I can show you how to do the mermaid and the frog, and maybe even the Flying Wallenda. And if you're lucky, you might even be invited to the wedding. Mari Windsor will be there, and so will Daisy Fuentes. And hopefully we will be blessed by the spirit of Joseph Pilates himself.

going to the chapel. g

The Passion of the Christ

2006-03-20T08:36:00.000-08:00

This is a photo of Jesus trying to talk Mister Lego Man out of committing suicide. In all his bearded compassion, he gave it his all and tried to make Mister Lego Man understand that life was a gift from his dad (our Lord) and that it was worth giving it another shot.

It worked. After this pic was snapped, Mister Lego Man rose triumphantly, ate a burger at ESPN Zone, and jacked a lady's purse. It was a beautiful end to a beautiful day at Disneyland.

For the record, it's also pretty cool to get to have sex with the old JC himself. Great hands, that guy has. From all that carpentry, I guess.

amen. g

don't let your vagina talk to strangers

2006-03-14T14:36:00.000-08:00

You are responsible for the safety and well-being of your vagina. It needs your guidance, your love, and your attention. Abuse it, and it will check out and become a serial killer and soon you will be watching Made-for-TV movies about your vag going psycho and killing a bunch of teenage girls. Or something like that. Anyway, love your self-cleansing, rain-foresty organ. It needs you.

It's like your myspace page.

You should be clear about the outcome you want. Do you want to be popular, fun and fancy free, and ready to roll with some curve balls the world throws, or do you want to be cozy and intimate? Once you determine this, act accordingly.

You're not allowed to add oodles of people you don't know, plus every band that requests your friendship, and then complain that "everyone on this place is fake." You cannot further assert this assinine idea by posting poorly written bulletins imploring your "real friends" to respond to you. That goes against the whole idea. I am your friend because you added me. Don't MAKE me respond to this self-centered piece of shlock you posted in a self-righteous frenzy at 2AM.

Plus, I know that your threat to "delete everyone who doesn't respond" is as empty as Paris Hilton's head at a science fair. You're not going to delete me. I was there for that time you drank too much Jagermeister and licked that cute barback's face. It was me who patted your bottom when you dressed up nicely for Valentine's Day. Together, we drink green beer on St. Patty's and watch movies at the Treehouse Cinemas (aka My House). Please don't do me this way, baby. Destroy these chains of bulletin-induced bondage and make this world a more pleasant place to be!

Be kind, my darlings. Be kind to yourself, be kind to others, and don't go posting half-assed requests for attention. So if you'll excuse me, I have to go get a pap smear.

hoo hoo. g

Devious Honey 2: Devious-er Than Ever

2006-03-10T11:17:00.000-08:00

I have heard of it before and have even seen it being done. I know it's an art, and I know it takes amazing physical prowess to do it at full tilt. Admittedly, I have done it myself, regardless of how meek or unpolished it was, but it was always as a lark--I didn't think I could learn to do it. And I most definitely never thought my journey would begin while escaping the verbal bile of a drunk man inside the Hollywood branch of the Borders.

Stripping.

Out of breath and slightly panicked, I ironically ended up in fitness. While flattened against the yoga books, my gaze fell upon "The S Factor: Strip Workouts for Every Woman." I smirked, imagining how ridiculous it must be to strip for fitness. But when I opened the book, I was immediately intrigued. "Love every part of yourself!" the book implores. "Learning how to unleash your femininity is the best thing a woman can do for herself!"

It makes sense to me.

I flipped through it with a mock casualness, trying to convince everyone around me that I was so enlightened I already knew how to strip and this was just a review. When I realized that no one was around except for a homosexual man who was having trouble deciding between The Zone Diet and South Beach, I knew it was time to drop the act. I do not know how to look good taking my clothes off...at least, like a stripper does. And I know nothing about pole dancing.

Any normal woman would have thrown her hands up and dismissed the whole thing as a fad. Not me. I flipped to the back section where the pole techniques were illustrated. "That doesn't seem so hard," I mused as I used the gay man's arm as a makeshift pole. "Check me out!" Without warning, my pole decided on Atkins and bolted to the cashier station, but I was unabated. I was going to learn how to strip!

The book starts at the beginning, trying to get women to accept their bodies and get comfy taking it off. They list songs to dance to, talk about how to feel the rhythm, and even include stretching in the mix. Then, the good stuff begins. They illustrate exactly how to remove clothes the hot way, and how to draw it out to maximize the tease. The moves are all laid out so even the most retarded wannabe stripper can figure it out, and at the end of the book they even lay out a step-by-step routine.

This thing was well worth the price of admission.

There is a quiz to figure out what kind of stripper persona you have naturally. Mine is "The Dark Soul," who is deep, moody, complex, intelligent, and powerful. Sure, you can be a handful. But what a handful! And talk about sexy." I happen to agree with this because I scowl a lot when concentrating, and being hot takes concentration. But now the thing that's left is a stripping name. I have to give this wildcat inside a name.

Havana Tuesday? Frankie Champagne? Ginger Jones?

Nothing seems to fit, except for the name stitched onto my hoodie: Devious Honey.

I think it works. Now that I'm a stripper-in-training, I've got my stripper mixes on my iTunes, and I am ready to head to their studio in West Hollywood. Oh sure, you thought it ended here, but stripping knows no limits here in H-town. They have a studio in WeHo where you actually get pole time. You can't strip off your g-string, but you can take everything else off. Or you can leave it on and save it for when it really counts...

I guess I owe the drunk guy in the Borders a thank-you. Hopefully one day I will see him again, as he is stuffing wads of ones down my panties. Oh, a girl and her dreams...

pour some sugar on me. g

Way of the Future

2006-02-27T11:25:00.000-08:00

I'm sad for my special man friend, I think I'm getting the "Howard Hughes Dirty Hands" disease (aka obsessive-compulsive disorder), and I am once again baffled by Mardi Gras.

Someone has a case of the Mondays...

First and foremost, Pablo Honey's kitty Gir packed all his belongings in a polka-dotted satchel, slung it over his little kitty back, and moved to his new home. Luckily his new home was not "the alley behind El Pollo Loco" or "a shelter where he would most certainly be killed," but rather the LeezyB & Susan B. Anthony Estate. The kitty seemed to attain some level of comfort quickly, and Pablo Honey kept his composure while seeing him off.

It was the first thing I thought of this morning when I woke up, and it made my heart as gray as the sky outside the windows.

I have only been close to one animal in my life, and I couldn't imagine having to give her away. I also can't imagine having that much integrity and strength to even consider it. Fact is, the kitty didn't have enough space, and his roomie pays good money to live with healthy respiratory function. So...the harder-than-difficult decision was made, and the kitty found a wonderful new home.

But it still makes me blue.

Also making me blue is my lack of dental health. I am moving into the next period of my life that involves dental irrigators, electric toothbrushes, and infinite amounts of baking soda mixed with salt and hydrogen peroxide. But the only problem is that while researching how to make the environment in my mouth pleasant, I am learning how many chemicals we put in our bodies at every turn. Hence, the OCD.

Toothpaste and shampoos have SLS in them. Anti-perspirant has Aluminum ingredients. My makeup has propylene-glycol, my lotion has lanolin in it, and parabens are in everything else. Apparently every day, I am helping my body soak in breast cancer, rashes, nitrates, and other irreversible damage.

I've been examining the products I use to get ready in the morning, and trying to figure out how to eliminate the chemical-laced ones. But this is a slippery slope. It might start at my moisturizer, but it will lead to my detergent, and my lip balm, then jump to my dishwashing fluid, then the fabric of my clothes, and end at...well, it won't ever end.

Is it possible to live a chemical-free existence? I don't think so, which is why I'm pondering moving to a Costa-Rican cave and becoming a nudist.

Speaking of nudity, Mardi Gras, for yet another year, pisses me off. I can never seem to figure out when the hell it actually begins or ends. It appears to this white girl from Colorado that Mardi Gras happens about three times a year before June, with people invoking its existence just so they can see some bare knockers and sling those tacky beads around.

I could have sworn someone had a Mardi Gras party back in January. Now, here everyone is, sending photos of themselves watching live sex shows with their grandparents and drinking purple rum drinks out of impossibly huge hurricane glasses.

Oh yeah, the hurricane. Won't New Orleans just calm down for a second? Shouldn't they be worrying about how to get their homes rebuilt and public facilities running before they concern themselves with how many shots they can take from between a hooker's sweaty breasts? Maybe I am misinformed. Perhaps things are way better than they were, and that the city is miraculously healing itself and overcoming adversity.

But it seems to me that this is the second time Fat Tuesday has happened this year, and amid all my wistfulness, it's irritating me. Re-open your colleges and save the parades for next year.

meow. g

Zurg's Dead, baby. Zurg's Dead.

2006-02-24T23:41:00.000-08:00

Pablo Honey wanted the title of this blog to be "My Boyfriend's Better than Me." And as you can see, stereotypes once again prove true, as his shooting score surpassed mine on the uber-fun Buzz Lightyear ride. I feel fine about it; my supple breasts prevented me from aiming the gun properly.

We just got back from a day in the Magic Kingdom. I was expecting the day to be full of cynicism, edginess, and superiority complexes, but it was really just delightful. The minute I laid eyes on Main Street, every memory of Disneyland that lives inside of me swelled and leapt to the surface, bringing an acute feeling of joy that was like pop rocks leaping all over my body.

I immediately likened it to Americans' pull towards McDonald's after a trip out of the country. We might not ever eat there during the daily grind, but once we're away, it's the first thing we want to stuff in our face upon returning home. So The Haunted Mansion is similar to a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

I went on my first rollercoaster ride in five years. The best part of it was not the weightless feeling in my tummy as we descended 108 feet, but rather the insane giggling of my cohort, Mister Pablo Honey. I experienced the same chortle while on a short-but-presh rollercoaster in Toontown AND Thunder Moutain Railroad. I decided that it adds a mentally-unstable element to the whole thing that I really enjoy. Because what's better than riding a rollercoaster? Riding a rollercoaster with a crazy man that you get to see naked, that's what.

We got to see Pirates of the Caribbean before they rip it out and make it more like the film. Alas, we did not stand up on the boats or sing Nirvana songs too loud (as some of my friends have), because I was too wrapped up in the magic. I felt like I was five again, except this time around I happened to realize that the pirates had attacked some Spanish port and were trying to drown and rape Spanish-speaking people. That really made the whole thing more...vivid. But I purchased a commemorative wrist band souvenir that has both a skull and crossbones as well as "Dead men tell no Tales" embroidered on it.

Fantasyland bugs me, since all you do is sit in tiny little unprotected carts and run into walls. The whale in Pinocchio, the descent into Hell on Mister Toad's, and the Evil Queen in Snow White all scarred me as a wee HellCat. As I cruised through these horrible rides two decades later, I felt my anxiety level skyrocket. Thankfully, Pablo Honey was nothing but supportive, even though my iron grip on his leg skewed his circulation for a solid thirty minutes.

Towards the end of the day, as our feet were getting tired and the omnipresent children became less adorable, the Disneyland-sanctioned group of Annoying Men Banging on Garbage Cans seemed to follow us everywhere we went in Tomorrowland. These men, although blessed with amazing rhythm, were doing things that homeless people in my homebase of Hollywood do all the time. I came to Disneyland to escape all this, for chrissakes. With every strike of their red and white sticks, the balls of my feet seemed to hurt worse. If it weren't for a surprise cameo and finger-gun-shooty motion from Buzz Lightyear, I might have totally lost my mind.

And just to note, I think fashion-conscious Asian women manage to look even cuter at Disneyland. I didn't think it was possible, but it truly is. If you find yourself succumbing to yellow fever, you MUST drive to Anaheim immediately!

The day was truly one of the happiest I have had in a long time. Although I was beyond exhausted, I still had a huge smile on my face when I drifted off to sleep. And the best part? We got a free 2-day pass, and get to do it again sometime real soon. Life is beautiful.

hi-ho. g

Solemn Vow

2006-02-22T01:49:00.000-08:00

I tend to follow a whole "When it rains, it pours" mentality when it comes to Grae Maintenance. Since I lack insurance, it's always a challenge to do things like go to the doctor or dentist. This is mostly because I love bargain hunting but know that you get what you pay for, particularly when it involves people rooting around in your mouth or hoo-hoo.

This is why I generally avoid making scheduled trips anywhere. I let it go maybe just a little long, like a dentist visit every year and a half instead of every six months. And therein begins our tale.

I have always loved the dentist, beginning as a wee tot in Dr. O's office. He was a gentle, caring Asian man no less than seven hundred years old, and he always gave me ceramic figures of clowns to paint when the checkup was over. I liked the cut of his jib, and therefore loved going to the dentist. Until today.

Any fondness I had for dental offices was shattered when I went to my appointment today. In the waiting room, angry grandmothers and the disenchanted almost-homeless created a palpable air of Periodontitis Blues that threatned to suck me in. My name was called and I escaped to a large, dismal waiting room. I sat among the indifferent dental staff, and noticed that the fluoresent lighting was buzzing really loudly. It took me three minutes to figure out that it was actually a child screaming behind a closed door at a constant rate.

It was the first time in my life I felt a sickening sense of dread creep into my tummy while waiting for the Mouth People to do their Mouth Magic.

When the Russian doctor strolled over to me, she called me Grace and ignored my polite attempt to correct her. She told me that I need a good cleaning and that if I don't do it soon my face will implode. Or something. And to continue the afternoon of firsts, it was at that moment that I felt dentally lackadaisical and ashamed. They used to call me Goldenmouth back home. Back then, I walked with a quiet confidence--even if I only got a 1200 on the SAT, I still had excellent dental hygiene. And now, in this city of sin, I have disgraced myself and no longer have pearly whites to be proud of. I have let myself and my tooths down.

You are present to witness my vow to change my teeth care regimen. I will fight gingivitis, get my teeth straightened, fix my cracked veneer, and reclaim my throne as Teeth Queen. My bathroom will soon be reminiscent of a dentist's office, with an electric toothbrush and oral irrigator. I will rinse bacteria from my mouth with pride, my darlings, and will never lose my teeth or need a root canal.

Do you think that this could be caused by too much oral? Hmm. Like maybe I shouldn't feel so bad; hookers have it worse than me. I shouldn't be so hard on myself, because at least I have the teeth of a girl who doesn't get paid to do it.

chomp. g

Hard to Swallow

2006-02-19T15:35:00.000-08:00

Occasionally when surfing the Intranet, I will hear a tiny bleating of discomfort from somewhere deep within myself. It is as though something demands my attention, and my body is forced to protest my tendency to use the gift of connectivity to watch videos of fat girls falling off motorbikes and tracking where my dollar bills went.

Sunday I heard that call, and went where my keystrokes took me. They landed on craigslist, in the "Therapeutic Services" category. Among endless ads from foreign women advertising "Tender Flowing Touch w/Sweet College Girl," and "Pure Body Bliss from Real Asian," I saw the ad for "Urea Therapy."

"Naw, it couldn't be." I thought, as I clicked hurriedly towards the weirdest thing I heard all day (which is a feat, since I was hanging out with my sister and her best friend earlier and they had some tales to tell! Fake pregnancies, distant husbands, and falsified HIV tests, oh my!).

Some wacko claims that he got a massage (in Eastern Europe, of course) where the masseuse kind of flipped the script on him. Oh sure, Uda the Masseuse used lotion on Mr. Craiglist, but occasionally he would urinate on him as well. Apparently the pee-lotion made for a really desireable effect.

At first I thought this Mr. Craiglist enjoyed his Golden Massage because he is a serial killer. But then I googled Healing Urine and came up with ALL THESE PAGES that say this is a good idea. Apparently urine is sterile for about 15 minutes after exiting the body, and even after that when bacteria begin to grow, they aren't all bad. If you massage it on your skin, it makes your skin all soft, and doesn't even smell! One site even suggested you use it to clean your windows!! And, like a magical, golden shaman, it heals ailments!

The most intriguing information was that the bodies' experiences, both psychological and physical, collect in the urine. So reintroducing it to the body gives the immune system another go-around at building strength against whatever is ailing you.

I can't bring myself to try it.

Flash Foward to today. Upon exiting my yard, I stood atop the final, large staircase and took a deep breath of the cool air. I put my left leg out to begin the descent down and promptly fell down the stairs. With me came a bag full of hard drives, DV tapes, and important CDs that managed to land on my sternum. I lay on the steps for a minute, shocked and praying I hadn't broken anything. After I determined that I was mostly okay, I opened up my mouth and wailed "Owwwwwwww," loud enough that a painter next door poked his head out of the garage and said "Are you okay?" in a thick accent. I nodded and stood up, assessing my wounds.

I whacked my right ankle on the brick hard, and I landed on my left ass cheek super hard. I scratched up the palms of my hands, and made a deep gash on my right pinkie knuckle. And now, 12 hours later, my ankle and pinkie are killing me. When I am going through any trauma, it causes me to talk to myself. Here's what a conversation with myself looked like as I limped into the SavOn to get an ace bandage.

"Hang in there, chief. Pain only makes you stronger, Grae. That line is some bullshit said by some unintentionally optimistic retard whose brain doesn't even register pain. They sprain their ankle and instead of 'Ouch' they say 'Ice Cream!' or some shit like that. This hurts so bad, it assures me I never want children. Fuck the stairs, man. This is why people should drive everywhere, even right into their house. Fuck the environment and the EPA. They're full of the same retards we were discussing earlier. And also I hate Asian drivers."

So I am sitting here, throwing my head back in pain every 30 seconds, wishing for more Vicodin.

And I have realized that these things always happen as they are supposed to. That ad on craigslist wasn't just an accident.

I think I'm going to have to piss all over myself.

It's the only way to heal this ankle and pinkie is to urinate on them constantly. I have my water bottle filled and ready to leap right into this. Squat for the cure, baby.

tinkle. g

I Love The Sex and Pasta

2006-02-16T10:23:00.000-08:00

As truthful as I am here, in our own private little Web World, I still leave some things unsaid. Some things I find necessary to keep to myself. But lately it's become clear that this might not be the healthiest way to go. I figured that releasing these skeletons from my proverbial closet would set me free. So here they are.

First of all, I am not a smoothie person. I like the idea of smoothies, because they contain fruit and/or vegetables, and if I can drink something instead of chew it, I'm all over it. But when I find myself in front of a menu, I feel overwhelmed at all the combinations. Suddenly, the small difference between strawberries and raspberries seems monumental. Orange or pineapple? Do I want apple juice in there, or not? And what about papaya? Am I really exotic enough to get fucking papaya in my drink? Or Mango, for that matter? Sheesh.

All I know for sure is that I don't want any dairy, soy, or bee pollen coming anywhere near my precious drink. I'll choke a bitch that tries to put those nefarious ingredients in there.

This problem leads me to avoid Jamba Juice like the plague. One time I went in there just because I needed a quick snack, and I stood there like some Mongoloid at the zoo. Finally someone asked me if I was okay. I said yes a little too loudly with panic in my voice, and hurriedly ordered the first thing I saw off the menu. I ended up with some Soy Yogurt- Ass Fruit- Sweaty Balls Shake with a Bee Pollen twist. It ruined my day.

Next on the list is what I do when I look in the mirror. I have been told by several people that I have a "Mirror Face." Only problem is, I don't know I'm doing it. Apparently I take care of my reflective business, and then just before I leave the mirror, my back straightens just the tiniest bit, and I purse my lips together. I also add a small raise of the eyebrows. Then, I just leave and go about my day.

And the last thing I will reveal is that while I'm watching TV by myself, I put my left hand on my belly because it comforts me.

Since you asked so nicely, here's a bonus. I am a huge fan of Gross Bodily Occurrences, with my most favoritest one being Ingrown Hairs. I particularly enjoy ingrown hairs that have been aging under my skin for a long time (not entirely unlike fine wine). Those are the ones that surface and end up being seven inches long.

Also, if anyone has any mysterious boils or pimples that need to be popped, give me a call. I have nails now, and I know how to use them.

squish. g

Happy Fricking Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T12:42:00.000-08:00

The following is the work of my beloved Pablo Honey. He is a master wordsmith, and this is a piece inspired by our life together. I must admit that it gets the HellCat Stamp of Approval. Lucky for you, you're in the loop. Enjoy!

LIGHTS UP. A HUSBAND and WIFE sit on a couch snuggling.

HUSBAND
No, I love you more.

WIFE
No, I love you more.

HUSBAND
No--wait, I guess I love you less. I'm just kidding! I totally love you
more!

WIFE
Awww, shnookybutters!

(they nuzzle each other in an annoyingly adorable way)

WIFE
Babypants?

HUSBAND
Yes, bunnyface?

WIFE
Why don't we ever fight?

HUSBAND
Do you think we should?

WIFE
Well, Father Tim says that it's healthy to have an argument once in a while.
It gets out anger and clears the air.

HUSBAND
I could try it, I guess. What do we do?

WIFE
Just go out and come in and start screaming whatever's on your mind.

HUSBAND (chuckling to himself over the absurdity of it all)
Okay, but I'm not pulling any punches! You're gonna get it!

WIFE
Hee hee! Okay!

(The husband goes out of the room. Once he comes in, all the rest of the
dialogue should be delivered in tones of escalating, foaming rage.)

HUSBAND (stepping in the door)
Look at this place. It's fuckin spotless! Whaddaya do all day, just clean
and tastefully decorate this beautiful home?

WIFE
Oh, here we go. Whaddaya YOU do all night except sexually satisfy me in ways
I never dreamed possible?

HUSBAND
Maybe I wouldn't feel like doin' that if you'd stop cooking me delicious
meals every time I bend over to tie my fuckin' shoes!

WIFE
You're the one who's been able to get it up every night without fail since
our honeymoon!

HUSBAND
Your breasts grow firmer and more succulent by the day, WHORE!

WIFE
All right, motherfucker! You want a blowjob?

HUSBAND (narrows his eyes)
You don't have the guts.

WIFE
Oh yeah? Just watch me!

(She kneels down and starts undoing his pants.)

HUSBAND
Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this!
(yelling directly into the top of her head:)
I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH!!!

BLACKOUT.

Never Take Pilates Lessons from a Fatty

2006-02-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

I am standing on a dusty road, wearing my light blue cropped sweatpants with the word "Pink" emblazoned across the ass. As the hot, dry wind whips across my face, I shift my sports bra back into place, and adjust the do-rag on my head. As the sun shines in my eyes, making me squint, I wrinkle my nose at the uncertainty ahead. It finally sinks in that I have reached a Pilates crossroads, my darlings.

The road to the left leads me to an Adonis-like French man teaching the class and lending his expertise to tone my powerhouse. The road to the right involves a dour, pot-bellied man of indeterminable cultural origins barking orders at me, making me wince and hate my life. Seems like no contest? I wish.

I was introduced to Adonis and his amazing Pilates studio recently, and it has greatly improved the quality of my life. Not only is he easy on the eyes, standing at about 6'4" with zero body fat, but he runs the class in a way that is inspiring and challenging all at the same time. He makes funny jokes, does this precious little whistle when he wants you to pick up the pace, and plays phenomenal music. He even manages to call you "sexy lady" at moments you couldn't feel less sexy. But it makes you smile through your straining muscles.

Somehow, performing Pilates at that studio makes me feel like a better version of me. The only problem: it costs a LOT to be a better me.

So, I reluctantly decided to check out the half-as-expensive Pilates class at my gym. With only one or two classes per day, I am not wild about the idea. But, out of duty to my checkbook, I signed up.

This morning I went in and checked out the machines as the first class was working. They pale in comparison to Adonis' machines, but they are better than the ones on QVC. Check.

The people I saw through the glass door were supposed to be doing an advanced class. However, they seemed to be spending a lot of time doing beginners work that holds little satisfaction for the more acrobatic, cardio-hungry user like myself. My enthusiasm began to wane.

Then I saw the instructor. He stood with unimpressive posture that only seemed to improve when he was criticizing someone's form. His eyes were dull and half-closed, and his lips were like two slimy earthworms perched atop his chin. Then my eyes moved south to see his pot belly. Pot belly! No one who actually does exercise that centers on using abdominal muscles for EVERYTHING should have a POT BELLY!

"This is an outrage!" I thought to myself as I gripped the now-forgotten USA Today in my right fist. "That's like taking advice on raising children from a childless, crazy cat lady!" My eyes narrowed, my heart rate quickened. I began to long for the diffused light that filters through the beautiful West Hollywood glass of Adonis' studio and perfectly lights the sweat on my torso.

As the "advanced" class ended, I walked in and took off my green clogs. I sat, with a smile fixed on my face, and watched as Earthworm Lips didn't lead them through stretches. His beady eyes scanned the room, perhaps for loose change or linty candies from someone's pocket, and they fell on me. He sauntered over, as gracefully as any fatty could, and proceeded to tell me that I couldn't take the class.

"You need to sign up for a Level One class, since we all do the same exercises and you'll slow us all down since you don't know them." I looked at him and told him that the desk told me it was okay to sign up for Pilates 2 if I was familiar with the machines. He grinned. "No. I need to evaluate you first. Tomorrow or Thursday, 8 AM."

Impotent and repulsed, I stood up and grabbed my shoes. How dare this Poor Man's Jabba The Hut turn ME away! I wanted to challenge him to a Pilates Battle, so we could see who should be judging who.

*editor's note: Realistically, this makes perfect sense. But the crankiness of not being able to afford Adonis' great classes combined with the slovenly appearance and uncaring demeanor of Earthworm Lips makes it an outrageous affront.*

I will see this character tomorrow morning, and I will wow him with my skills. All I know is that Jabba better make me sweat, or I will unleash upon him the fury that comes from a lamely-exercised abdominal area and hurt feelings.

grr. g

The Zero Hour

2006-02-06T21:50:00.000-08:00

Every single program I've watched tonight was about death and/or the End of the World. It really got me thinking. We get so caught up in this rat race that we never quite remember to really make the moment count. There are so many people around here that deserve to know how much they mean to me.

If today were my last day on the planet, I would make sure to be wearing my ear flap hat. I would put on my garter belt and stockings, my hottest bra, a short skirt, and an inappropriately thin white tank top. I would then act the same as if I was wearing a snow suit and roll around on the ground and make angels of some kind, even if I had to use dirt.

I would tell you that exchanging emails with you makes my heart sing. After your brush with death where I saw you hooked up to numerous machines, frantically trying to scribble notes on a notepad to no avail, each electronic word is a gift from the big JC.

It recharges my inspiration tank when I picture you reading this column every Saturday morning, cup of coffee in hand. When you tell me how much you loved it the next week, I swell with pride.

Our lunches in Silverlake and yummy homemade cookies at famous people's houses serve as the perfect backdrop to conversations that I need to keep my sanity and compassion for the world alive. I adore your curly hair but don't understand your love of running.

When we laugh together, I realize that there isn't much more to life than that sound. Then, I realize that there is more, actually--like when you tell stories about the naked people you passed on the way to the Starbucks that morning or people who accidentally pee in their own suitcases while sleepwalking.

Every time I see your face on TV, I remember the time that you couldn't sleep because ants kept crawling in your ear while you were in the sleeping bag on the floor at our friend's house. You still went out to get donuts with me even though you were exhausted and were twiching at each imaginary ant still near your aural canal.

When I see you onstage, making people laugh, it makes me so proud I feel like bursting.

Watching you play with your daughter gives me hope for the future.

Each pearl of wisdom you throw my way between the lunges and the bicep curls makes me a better, smarter, stronger person.

The times you searched through my closet for a Halloween costume at the last minute while still managing to scrounge up something hilarious was a joy to watch.

I loved watching movies and drinking 40s with you on your couch.

There was nothing like coming home from and honest day's work and barbecuing with you guys. That beer hasn't tasted as good since.

Our hikes are the only reason I like going outside on some days.

From movies in the graveyard to filthy documentaries, no one does movie night like you. And those rolls! To die for!

Filling your dorm room with balloons on your birthday was THE ONLY good thing that came from bringing Patch Adams to the big screen. I remember how much fun we had shoving them aside while you opened your gift, which was an inappropriately large vibrator. In school colors, nonetheless.

I've never enjoyed staring into someone's eyes as much as I do yours. I've never slept as soundly after doing it, either.

You make text messaging fun.

It is next to impossible to have THAT much fun on the Metro. You outdid yourself on that one, kid.

You were the master of surprises and always made me understand that I was on your mind more than I let myself believe. Thanks.

Muffins and conversation with my dearest, darlingest wife. A perfect, self-improving evening is what I call that.

Let's go skydiving and then play with your dog.

Remember when we snuck into that rehearsal hall after they were closed, ate some ice cream, and then spent hours trying to figure out how to get past of all the locked doors? I learned many things about illegal behavior that night that I treasure to this day.

Thank you for loving me.

Now let's all pray that the bomb inside the World War II reenactor won't explode, or that those underwater creatures won't disturb the Earth's core enough to create MORE natural disasters and wipe us all out. Put those hands together and hope karma is real and that men and women can exist in harmony, etc. And also throw in a clean tank top for me, too.

kiss. g

Sweet Chocolate Jesus

2006-02-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

I consider myself to have excellent willpower and an overall strong constitution. I take the high road, often at the cost of my own comfort. I take pride in doing the right thing. Blah fricking blah. That all means nothing now. Let me paint you a picture.

I am sitting in my atmospherically-lit apartment. I am wearing my jam-jams, comfy slippers, and my softer-than-a-cloud pale pink bathrobe. I just got done eating a healthy dinner, and am considering turning in for an early night.

I gave the cable box one last workout before I pulled back the covers. It landed on the Home Shopping Network, as it has a couple times in the past month, and what I saw there left me breathless. In front of my very own unsupervised eyes lay Valentines candies, glinting under the warm HSN lights. There were pretzel sticks covered delicately in nuts and chocolate chips, brightly gleaming caramel corn, and caramel apples rolled in nuts and drizzled delicately in white chocolate. The people at Silvestri Candies even thought to leave the stick out of the apple so it lasts an entire month. That kind of longevity, of course, is useless, because the very moment that an apple of that magnitude enters any woman's general vicinity it will disappear so fast it will be as though it never existed.

Let's talk more about why this is such a problem in case you're not following me. I am alone in my apartment, and before the fateful channel surfing began, was considering throwing out a booty call SOS to my boyfriend. Alas, the timing was not right, and I fixed the yummy dinner instead. Then came the TV. So I am a lone filly, on the couch as estrogen coarses through my veins, and I have fuzzy slippers on. The Home Shopping Network is possibly the worst channel to stop on, but I did anyway. And lo and behold, there was candy on the screen.

I had lost before I began.

It was reasonably priced, too. Not a penny over 20 bucks including shipping and handling. Hellfire. This is making me hate Valentines Day. This year, I was looking forward to the holiday, because I have a superb man friend and lots of wonderful friends and family close to me. But now, tonight, during my intense sugar craving, a dark cloud has formed over my head. What to do? Go to the Liquor store incognito and purchase an ice cream sandwich? Eat an apple? Go to bed? Masturbate? Pray for a death that will not come?

I think I'm going to cancel my cable.

static. g

Confessions of a Twenty-Something Drama Queen

2006-01-31T16:15:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-23T08:59:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-19T09:05:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-13T14:55:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-12T16:28:00.000-08:00

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"

2006-01-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-08T10:43:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-05T08:45:00.000-08:00

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

Apocalyptastic

2005-12-30T14:44:00.000-08:00

It's good to know that while Mel Gibson is losing his mind, he still has a sense of humor about it. This is a single frame from the Apocalypto trailer. No fooling.

passion of the mel. g

I'm Sorry I Masturbated on your Ikea Catalog

2005-12-30T11:49:00.000-08:00

Self-explanatory. g

A Facial in Jail

2005-12-29T21:48:00.000-08:00

You know, visiting my Papa Bear totally sucks. I just spent a whole night eating Fettucine Alfredo while watching DVDs on a 50-inch LCD TV. THEN, as if the night couldn't get any more unbearable, we drank Shiraz in the hot tub and I got to take my new bathing suit for a spin.

Life can be really, really shitty.

So my pores are clear, my aching muscles are soothed, and I am drunk. I cannot wait to come home. This place is like being in prison. A spa prison. Mud wraps and Evian in the YARD? Gag me with a spoon.

I even heard a scary story that disturbed me. My stepmama's bro managed to get me all flustered with the story of Shumann the Sheetless--ooh, I can feel the goosebumps prickle on my skin just typing it. Picture a middle-aged man who lives in a nice house. He keeps to himself, but is successful in the working world and manages to have some friends and play poker and stuff. The only thing is, he doesn't put sheets on his bed. No sheets anywhere.

So I'm assuming that if Shumann ever has sex, it's in some kinky place where his partner won't discover that Shumann shuns our culture and goes sans bedclothes. "Sorry honey, no vanilla sex tonight. We're fucking up against the fish tank like we always do."

Creepy. I've spied upon many a bed that could use clean sheets, but not one that was completely without. What other social norms could I not live without? I probably couldn't be with someone who totally despised the United States Postal Service...or someone who doesn't watch TV. Maybe someone who hates chocolate? Out of the question.

Battery on the wireless keyboard is dying. Must wrap up. Will be haunted tonight by images of sheetless beds and the Blair Witch twigs behind our suburban house. Don't ask...although, for the record, when I run into the Satan worshippers while taking out the garbage or something, I'll be sure to ask them if they have sheet sets on their beds. I bet they do. And I'll bet they invest in blood red satin ones, just to keep in step with the whole sacrificing/killing/voodoo that they do so well thing that they do (so well).

basement! g

Drinking Nog out of an Alcoholic's Mouth

2005-12-28T09:52:00.000-08:00

Christmas, Treehouse style. It involves touching turkeys innappropriately with oils, red bras hanging cermoniously from the ceiling fan, shockingly blase drug use, and some super-charged nog. You thought YOU partied hard? Just fucking wait.

Apparently the Pennsylvania Dutch are a bunch of low-life, alcohol-guzzling whack jobs, and their existence ultimately led to the end of my Christmas celebration because we were all nearly passed out on the floor after drinking their precious egg nog.

My hairdresser and confidante, The Fabulous Lady P, passed along a large bottle of pre-spiked egg nog from our favorite wooden-clog wearing motherfuckers over in Pennsylvania. There was not only bourbon in this nog, but whiskey as well, to separate the Elves from the Santas, if you catch my meaning.

The Mighty G poured the nog delicately into my fine china teacups. When everyone had an equal portion, I sprinkled some cinnamon in it at the request of Pablo Honey. We brought it to all of our friends, and the rambunctiousness of the night rocketed into the air faster than a homophobe that accidentally sits on a skywardly-pointing candy cane.

As more and more egg nog slid down my throat, the charming and elegant Christmas jazz morphed into "Anna Godda Davida." The fiber-optic Christmas tree was twisting its branches towards me, beckoning me to join him in a Bacchanalian embrace. My boyfriend and The Mighty G were having a punching contest, there were people making out on my bed, someone had taken their top off, and if you listened very carefully, you could hear another soul carefully reciting the Gettysburg address.

It was wild.

The party ended in that moment. We caught a glimpse of Pleasure Island that night, and we were not ready to turn into donkeys. But at least when we sobered up we could recall a lovely night spent with good friends and yummy food.

christmas past. g

Yee Haw

2005-12-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

If you was lookin' fer me, you'd find me in the Great State of Texas, hanging with my paw and shootin' critters. I have a few blogs here, waitin' fer me to fine tune 'em, which I will do within the next couple days. Hopin' y'all had a mighty good Christmas and such...talk to ya soon.

cowpoke. g

Like a Kid Again

2005-12-20T15:27:00.000-08:00

There are presents at my house.

Somehow the Treehouse has filled up with bow-y goodness, and tinseled and colorful packages are spilling off the tile onto the carpet. Being an adult, I have let them sit there and twinkle in the flattering lighting, not once needing to accost them in any way. They will be opened this weekend, no compromise necessary. They are friends whose presence I relish and I will be sad to see them go.

This weekend, all that changed. Three new presents arrived, nestled in my special man friend's arms. And all of a sudden, the voice in my head that was once so calm and logical is now saying "Your boyfriend got you THREE things! And they are pretty and shiny! Now get over there and shake the shit out of them!" The voice continues to say, "In fact, these presents are from people who are 1000 miles away! How are they ever going to know you shook and prodded them? You could even OPEN them and they would be none the wiser!"

So now, the area of the Treehouse that once created such joy and warmth is now annoying the hell out of me.

In fact, a package shipped to me from QVC arrived today. It looks kind of damaged. I think I had better open it and make sure it isn't all smashed up...whatever it is. The scissors are sitting right here, and the package is within reaching distance...

Oh no, it's happening. I just slit the clear tape on the outside of the box. A wonderful gingerbread smell is filling my senses. The aroma is wafting towards me, both easing my animalistic present-craving while somehow feeding the flame! I must save this present by unsheathing it from its cardboard prison! Onward!

It's open. More boxes lie within. Styrofoam. Tape. A little gingerbread card. What could it be?

Ah, a candle! A sweet, gingerbready candle. It even has a little lampshade with dancing gingerbread men on it. Adorable! Thank you Mom (and QVC)!

Should I feel bad? Have I broken some code, some unspoken law that governs all of us Judeo-Christian motherfuckers around this time of year? Am I going to hell? Or will I wake up with no presents? Will my leg fall off, or will my face break out in a rash of oozing pustules?

At least my apartment smells way tasty.

knock on wood. g

Grae Pouty Face

2005-12-16T14:15:00.000-08:00

I've been to Santa Land. It is just outside Colorado Springs, and is only open during the summer. Admission includes pictures with Santa and access to every attraction in the park. I remember it being a whirlwind adventure filled with candy canes taller than me (which was an achievement, even when I was a wee HellCat), lots of christmas lights, and reindeer. Red and green everywhere, and snow on the ground--yes, even in the summer.

My desire to think back to Santa Land is brought on by my quest to think of a time where I was worse off than I am right now. Today, I have a horrible migraine and am hovering on the brink of illness. No energy, slightly stuffy nose, sensitive throat. Not a full-blown cold, but close enough. The treehouse is beginning to look like Christmas exploded in it and much holiday straightening needs to be done, but I can do none of it. I can't edit because of the migraine, and I have no appetite and am forcing myself to eat and drink. This blows. But I know that it's been worse. So back to Santa Land.

As a youth, my parents packed up the whole family and hopped in the motorhome to head up to Santa Land. On the way up, I was reading an off-limits scary novel of my sister's about a musical boarding school for girls that turned them into zombies or something. I still remember the picture on the cover of a skeleton playing a baby grand that I always imagined was playing Melissa Manchester songs. To avoid prying mama eyes, I was riding in the back while my mom was busy playing hostess in the front. As long as there were cocktail weinies to be eaten, I knew I was safe. I flipped the pages of the forbidden book with delight, punctuating my disobedience by eating Doritos.

Unbenownst to me, there was a biological storm brewing within me.

Santa Land was great. We went on all the rides, took photos with the big man himself, and ate our weight in goodies. I ingested lots of things that day, with the most prominent of all being Funnel Cake in all its powdered sugar goodness. It was a wonderful day for a child.

Until the barfing started.

Apparently I was simultaneously learning about G-force and its effect in high altitudes as well as breeding a nasty strain of stomach flu at the same time.

So that's where the story ends, really. I was miserable. I was definetly in worse shape at that moment in time than I am now. The difference is that my mom isn't here to take care of me and make kissy-face-sicky-boo-boo voice when she asks me what I want for lunch. But my sister is going to bring my mail upstairs for me, Jeffy brought me some chicken soup the other day, and Pablo Honey purchased me some delicious sorbet and let me fall asleep on his tummy last night. I think I even drooled a little, and he didn't mind. So things are different but still nice in this adult-esque world I inhabit.

But will somebody bring me some Sex and the City DVDs anyway? Seriously. Usually, it's horror movies that make me feel better, but this time around, it's the horror of relationships and SJPs shoe fetish that is making me want to live. Please don't make me do pouty face.

Oh, and by the way, even 15-ish years later, I still can't eat funnel cake.

hack. g

On Board

2005-12-14T12:27:00.000-08:00

I just saw the trailer for the latest remake of the Poseidon Adventure. Before, I was one of the old curmudgeons saying, "Why remake a perfect film?" but I have changed my tune. Why? Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas is onstage, so now I am excited as fat guys when they see biscuits and gravy. Bring it, tsunami! Knock that ship over! That wacky and strangely fascinating pop star must GET IT!

(share my joy at apple.com/trailers)

blub blub. g

Prof. Kong teaches Love 101

2005-12-14T11:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, the movie is incredible, and yes, you should sacrifice life and limb to see it as soon as possible. It is both masterful and electrifying. As I sat in the old Cinerama dome this morning around, say, 2ish, it dawned on me that this movie was not only meeting all my Kick-Ass Action Needs, but it was imploring me to learn as well.

As a lady, I found Kong and Faye's relationship delicious. Kong embodies the qualities that women love about men. Anne acts as the same archetype for men. The two of them together produce this magical, idealistic relationship where the male will fight to protect her with a fierce passion, and the female is thankful and loves him in return. Now, of course this only goes so deep, because Kong never got a chance to forget her birthday and Faye never punished Kong by withholding sex, but bear with me.

He loved her so much that he fought T-Rexes, bit the heads off bats, and even got her away from all that nasty New York traffic. With each mighty strike upon his chest, he was protecting her because that was the only option. And once he had earned her trust, she wanted to please him and show him that she appreciated it. "Thanks for saving me from the dinosaurs, pal. Here, let me do a little dance for you."

The scene where they were in Central Park playing on the ice really killed me. This huge "beast" just wanted this little blond human to be happy. Oh, the estrogen coarses through my veins just thinking about it.

I began to wonder, though, during the Super Gross Bug and Uncircumcised Penis Monster scene, what men were supposed to be getting out of this. I don't think it was nearly the same.

I think it was something along the lines of

YOUR LIFE WILL BE FINE UNTIL YOU MEET A WOMAN YOU LOVE, AND THEN YOU WILL BE KILLED--METAPHORICALLY, AND POSSIBLY LITERALLY BY BI-PLANES.

Isn't that really what love is for dudes? An unavoidable death?

Their existence alone is fine. Perhaps a Single Man's Saturday consists of eating Roman Noodles or Twizzlers for breakfast, scratching himself on the couch, and playing his video gaming system until he feels like going out and getting drunk with all his friends. Few complaints or worries. An abundance of money and spare time. Little to no talking. And then a dame walks in through his door, and the whole deal changes.

She's soft, and smells good even after she works out. Her smile breaks your heart. Her nails look nicer than yours, and she has breasts. Hopefully she likes giving you oral and does it often. Maybe she talks a lot, but you like the sound of her voice when she's happy. You begin to include her in your big picture and she secures a stronghold in your heart. Pretty soon, you're destroying the Ahmanson theater just to get close to her. You take the relationship to a new level (or at least to higher ground). A meaningful glance is exchanged...and then you get shot in the back by dickheads in planes.

You're in love. And you're dead.

Lucky for men, they can eventually be magically resurrected. Sometimes love doesn't last forever. If the movie was real, and this whole entry wasn't a metaphor, and somehow the entire Space-Time Continuum shifted, Kong might have been able to peel himself off 5th Avenue and hitchhike back to Skull Island if only he decided she wasn't worth wasting his life. But he stayed dead. The movie ended.

It was fucking wonderful.

And it makes me want to enjoy a sunrise with my Kong.

beautiful. g

Ride 'Em

2005-12-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

This Brokeback Mountain thing has got me all hot and bothered.

I remember the first time I saw that trailer. My special man friend and I were in a flick on what had been to that point a heterosexually hot evening. He was eating a snack, I was thinking about whether or not my eyemakeup was blended properly-pretty average. Suddenly, the Copperplate Gothic font I know so well flashed on the screen, and what followed made my jaw permanently bond to the non-sticky ArcLight theater floor.

Dudes kissing.

And here, dudes even gets a literal meaning because they are cowboys. These two hotties are keeping each other warm during cold nights, living in sham marriages, smelling each other's old jean shirts, and pressing their sculpted bodies against each other while staring at lakes.

As the trailer ended, I sat there rooted to Row K Seat 21. My heart was hammering in my chest, my palms had the most delicate beads of sweat forming on them, and I felt like I might die from happiness. I realized that this might insult my man friend. I turned to him. His eyes slid away from the screen and he whispered, "That's pretty much going to be the hottest movie ever." I exhaled with relief. "Holy crap," said I. "I feel like Christmas came early."

So I've been thinking about men who steer cattle and screw each other. Whoah, Nelly.

It dawned on me that there's a trick to this. Dudes kissing is hottest when it involves two men that are Hetero Enough to also maybe want to ravish a woman. If there are two muscly men kissing that obviously want nothing to do with labias and such, the hotness is watered down like hot chocolate at the homeless shelter.

I call this the Hot Chocolate Homo-Hetero Hotness Theory. Look for the paper in the next Scientific American.

yeehaw. g

Eyebrow SVU

2005-12-08T17:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes eyebrows suffer too. The poor darling fraternal twins try to grow and thrive on some woman's face, but after years and years of being beaten down by uneducated, misguided plucking, they just give up hope. They keep the shape that the wannabe esthetician gave them, and more often than not, it is the wrong one. But they were no match for the cold steel of the tweezer, so they just did what they were told.

So often one might hear the tale of how their arch hits the middle of the eye, as opposed to the outer corner, forcing the poor defenseless eyebrows to peak too soon. They were pushed farther away from each other like brothers and sisters during the Holocaust, with iron bars and gas chambers being metaphorically replaced by forehead. They ended up distant from their sibling and made the woman's nose look wider at the same time. And they were overall too thick in some places and too thin in others--and had classic self-image problems like Karen Carpenter or Mama Cass.

We need to help these poor, hairy darlings. Otherwise, they might completely jump ship and force women to get tattoos above their eyes. This cycle of disdain and sadness that has kept the world spinning on a tilt must end, even if it shifts the balance of things. Women, we must do something.

I am doing my part. I am working with Beverly Hills' finest Eyebrow Shaper to set my precious, furry expression-helpers free. Where would I be if I couldn't raise one of my eyebrows when someone comes to me with a plea for help, or perhaps a terrible idea for a television show? Nowhere, is the answer. I have pledged to hide my tweezer and pray.

Join me, ladies. Everything you thought you knew about your eyebrow shape is probably wrong. You're walking around with fat ass noses and heavy lids and you don't even know it.

It took a trip to Beverly Hills to show me that I had let the philanthropist in me die. As I passed Tiffany & Co, Crate and Barrel, and Emporio Armani, it became clear what an asshole I am.

liberty! g

(and at Christmas you tell the truth)

2005-12-06T11:37:00.000-08:00

The Treehouse is freezing. In a last-ditch effort to heat it up, I am cooking. I have a big copper pot on the stove making sausage-and-bean stew that I think is going to be marvelous. There are Christmas decorations strewn about on the floor. A holiday dress that got the official "OK" last weekend is thrown carelessly on the couch (where I left it, heh heh heh). I am enjoying this.

I have decided that this holiday is going to be like "Love Actually" in real life. I am going to be bold. I will honor my family (although it won't keep me from having sex with my super hot man like it did for Laura Linney--sorry, girl). I will get cozy with friends. I will go to holiday recitals and make out with my boyfriend behind the stage. Later I will declare my love and intentions for him in front of a bunch of Portuguese people. Claudia Schiffer will make a cameo. Bill Nighy will end up naked on my television. And little girls will do the running man when someone sings that King Wenceslas song.

I love that frickin' movie. I've seen it five times recently, and we're not even a week into December yet. Thank you, dear Britain. You have inspired me to make each moment in this life one that I can be proud of.

And Billy Bob is a dick. g

New Year, Schmew Year

2005-12-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

For 24 years in a row, my New Year's Eves sucked more than one of those yellow Dyson vaccuum cleaners everyone gets so excited about.

Last year, though, the streak was broken. I decided that even though my love life was a wreck and my head felt like a cement mixer filled with rage and Worcestershire sauce, I was going to surround myself with as many loved ones as I could find and make some magic happen.

I began the night with a call from my ex. We chatted, trying valiantly to pretend we were okay. I hung up the phone and tore into my large bottle of Chimay red label faster than Pamela Lee unzipped Tommy's pants when the camcorder's red record light lit up. My guests arrived. I was soused. But I could still feel a tingling of pain in my sternum, so I kept going.

"Have an adorably small bottle of champagne, gorgeous," was the siren song coming from RobMag. No, wait, that was Halloween, but I was drunk and WISHING I had those presh little bottles that he introduced me to, but no liquor stores seemed to have. Yeah, that was it. That's why the memories melted together.

My friends and I ate some finger foods. We looked mesmerizing in the candlelight. We laughed. I was feeling numb. And the party hadn't even started yet!

The Mighty G, bless her sober heart, drove me to the gathering. It took all of ten minutes to drive to Atence's place, and I still managed to sneak a few tears in just to make the G feel a little worse for me (if that was even possible for my pathetic ass). I don't remember this, by the way, but she seems to believe it happened. So. Apparently I got a hold of myself enough to enter the party and turn on the fabulous. My camera flash was going off once every 15 seconds. There was a big bottle of Jack Daniels...or was that the party this summer where I dressed up like a saloon whore?...hmm...

The All Stars were there. Old friends all, smiling and laughing and drinking and hitting on one another. There was an abundance of kissing, sometimes even with the person you were there with. Music, debates, jumping on the bed, making fun of the hostess...not a down moment. I was out-of-control-drunk, which means that I was talking sex and matters of the heart, laughing too loudly, and making out with people I had known platonically for 3 years. Not once did I feel bad about any of it. I had escaped my worries.

I was driven home, and managed to make it up the windy steps to the Treehouse unscathed. And that's all I remember.

I woke up the next morning with the TV blaring "Any Which Way But Loose." I felt that I had my shirt on from the night before, but nothing else, indicating that I was undressing but got distracted and passed out. I was glad I was alone, so no one else could see me like this. Then I realized that it was incredibly dark in the room, and I wondered why, seeing as how it was daytime and all. I felt my eyes. And slowly, as if underwater, I removed my sock monkey from his perch across the bridge of my nose and opened my eyes for the first time.

This is when shit got weird.

I glanced toward the foot of my bed and saw that a perfectly sliced piece of banana bread was lying on my chest with one bite taken out of the corner. As my chest rose and fell with each confused breath, I formed a theory that the banana bread was an offering to the sock monkey who just wasn't hungry. So I ate it myself and crawled daintily to the bathroom to be sick.

As this year comes to a close, I am feeling hopeful. For the first time, I had a Rock and Roll New Year and took no prisoners. I resolved to make the entire year about resolutions; to contantly improve myself and gain some new understanding of the world within and around me. I chose to dedicate the year to the people who have stuck with me, through anything, no matter how poorly I treated them or how much I hurt them. The last 11 months have been for them. So it's been a pretty good year.

I wonder if having a shitty lead-in to the holiday is a requisite for having a super happy New Year's Eve. If it is, I might as well just stay home this year. No furry coats, dancing, alcohol, or loud music for me. This girl is too content.

But don't let this entry stop you from inviting me out. I'll bring the banana bread if you bring the champagne-lettes.

cheers. g

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

2005-11-29T09:50:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-29T08:29:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-11-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-24T14:30:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-22T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-17T07:25:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-16T08:31:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-11-14T12:53:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-11T13:27:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-10T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-09T15:28:00.000-08:00

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!

2005-11-08T07:24:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-04T10:37:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-01T10:42:00.000-08:00

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

Calling it a Day

2005-10-31T10:09:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-26T09:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-22T18:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-20T14:44:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-12T00:47:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-10-07T11:37:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

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)

2005-10-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

Coors-tastic

2005-09-30T00:38:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a great rock and roll show to break up the monotony of the work-week.

The New Pornographers performed tonight at the Henry Fonda Music Box, and it was stellar. This band has enough pep and pizzaz in them to last through the apocalypse, I tell you. Check them out, their first two albums are killer (I'm just getting used to the new release, give me a break...).

I have to admit that this isn't the blog I wanted to write tonight. I wanted to sit down after some hot lovin' and verbally expand upon my adoration for quickies. But, damn the concert, the kids were on fire tonight and it ran too long for HellCat to be sated in ways other than aural.

Now I find myself texting frantically, eating some vegetable chips from Trader Joe's, and nervously eyeing the clock.

I am a wreck when my nights don't end like I think they should. We've touched on this before.

But we're all adults here, so instead I am going to admit that sometimes, Coors can really add to your evening. Color me shocked, kids, and sign me up for the Afternoon Delight this weekend (and hey-no worries, darling heart of mine).

Anyway, one warm day in early summer a couple years ago, my man friend at the time and I were in search of foodstuffs before our film. I knew I was running low on gas, so I was going to stop at the next gas station on the next block. Unfortunately, I had gone too long and the car sputtered and died...right on the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica.

For those of you living in a goddamn cave, that is a hugely busy intersection with lots of people driving through it at any given moment during the day. So you know.

I sat, defeated, and eventually cast a helpless glance at my boy.

"I have to get some gas," said I.

"Wait, let me get it for you! I will abscond with gas and save the day, mylady!" He didn't actually say the last part, but he might as well have, since that's what the result would be.

I sat there, flashers a-flashing, waving people around me. I eventually just started laughing uncontrollably in the ole Jetta, because what the hell else could I do? I got sworn at, various hand gestures were made, and one woman made a voodoo doll in my likeness and stuck it in the face with a stray bobby pin she fished out from her ashtray. Everyone hated me at that moment. And I just sat there, listening to the Goo Goo Dolls on STAR 98.7 and giggled my little head off.

In the distance, I saw him. He was running towards me, even though running is against his nature as a human being and a screenwriter. I heard the Chariots of Fire themesong playing. Soon, he was at my passenger side, depositing the gas into the gas tank as though his life depended on it. As it turns out, it did, since a member of the Armenian mafia in his Lexus was nearing the intersection, and apparently he had some important drug deal to attend to.

Anyway, the car made it into gear and we rolled to the gas station. The first one we made it to was out of gas, and the pumps weren't accepting cards anyway. So, we said silent prayers as we bumbled to the next West Hollywood station, where my eagle-eyed ex spotted my back driver's side tire had a nail in it.

We picked up some Wendy's, got to the theater, and saw his insane ex-girlfriend's car in the parking garage. I readied myself for an ugly mark or two on the side of the VW as we barely made it into our film.

Now THAT was night I could have USED some Coors. But instead, I got it tonight, and had a lovely time. Thanks Hosscorn, and to all of you reading this, who thought there might actually be a point to my story.

Signed, Anxious in the Treehouse. g

The Best Kind

2005-09-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

The earth that we walk on has a pulse. If you tread softly, you can almost feel it beneath the soles of your feet, throbbing. This large ball of rock with a gravitational pull is spinning because of an energy that exists that we feed on and in turn fuel, in one big neverending cycle. It is stronger than steel, and deep in your heart, you already know what it is.

Slut Magic.

Slut Magic makes all things possible. It is this kind of wizardry that allows the world's blood to keep flowing through its veins.

Slut Magic is the fairy dust that makes booty calls free of cell phone drop-out, thus enabling the driver to obtain the green light (and location) worry-free. It also aids in g-spot orgasm, finally screwing that one person you've had your eye on for years, and sex that makes satellites spontaneously combust in the atmosphere around your latitude and longitude.

Slut Magic is the reason that we can never completely abandon sex, no matter how much we think we can rise above it. It is an itch in your soul that can only be scratched one way. Slut Magic does not compromise. It knows no boundaries and sees no color. It is an equal opportunity affector.

The oldest kind of magic around makes your decisions for you. It lives within you. It is the mitochondria in your every cell, converting the food you eat into slutty energy. It is the powerhouse that makes you what you are right now, as you read this.

So go, young squire, and honor thy Slut Magic. Make eyes at some nice looking gal in your office. Bite your lip and raise an eyebrow at that dashing young man in the mailroom. Better yet, have sex with these people. And it will be then that Slut Magic is pleased, and then that the world can stay balanced.

use your glucose. g

Ollie Ollie Oxy-Free

2005-09-26T23:10:00.000-07:00

My darlings, do you realize that we are biological creations with chemicals surging through our tissues, causing us to feel every single thing that we experience in a day? If you're feeling upset over your crappy job, or elated over your recent weight loss, or something inbetween, that is due in part to a chemical that is working its' way from your hypothalamus all the way southward to your toes.

I just found out about one particular hormone that's getting us in trouble, and we don't even know it exists.

Oxytocin is nicknamed the "bonding hormone." Male and female bodies release it during orgasm, and it causes one to bond to the person they're with. The only trick is that the presence of testosterone overwhelms oxytocin and makes it unaffecting to a (male) body. On the flip side, estrogen-run bodies are totally affected by it. So, this means, when ladies climax, we hang on to whoever caused it for dear life.

And the actual time limit of "dear life" is about 3 weeks--biologically, how long it takes to see if you're pregnant. Coincidence? I think not.

Our bodies are evolutionary machines, and we are operating on chemistry and instinct. We have little to no free will, people. Only for the past 100 years or so has sex become a recreational activity, and we're not built to handle that. Have you gents out there wondered why women can't really pull off casual sex? This is why. And as men's testosterone level decreases with age, they become more susceptible to the effects of the hormone, and as women age and estrogen decreases, they become free from this hormonally-charged link to their mate.

And so you know, Oxytocin is also responsible for uterine contractions in childbirth, lactation, and otherwise bonding mothers to babies.

I figure that we can learn a lot from knowing this hormone exists. It can help us make better choices in who we sleep with. Are you, as a woman, willing to bond yourself to the fucker that doesn't give you what you need to feel like a good person? And men: do you want to be the one this crazy skag bonds herself to for the better part of a month? If we know that biologically this is likely, we can make better choices! This knowledge could set us free!

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. We are self-aware individuals (although that guy who cut me off today on the 5 was definetly NOT one of those) and we are able to act against our instinct and chemicals. It is my assertion, however, that most of the time we think we're acting intellectually, but things like oxytocin are silently guiding us.

My great affection for my Special Man Friend was always the obvious part. But this helps me understand why I love my vibrator so much, too.

bzzz. g

Rage Against the Machine

2005-09-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

I have faith that all the crazy natural disasters in our world mean virtually nothing in the big picture. Some people say it's Armageddon, and my assertion is the opposite. I know the world isn't coming to an end. Would you like to know why I am so confident?

Once again, I have failed to receive a cell phone rebate.

Therefore, once I actually receive one, then I know that hell has frozen over, pigs are soaring through the skies, and we are all majorly screwed. Anything could happen at the point that my bank account is 50-ish dollars richer due to some goddamn cell phone company actually honoring my attempt to pry some money from their cold, dead hands.

Years ago, when I sent in my first rebate application, it was meticulously filled out with the recepit attached flawlessly. I even bought delivery confirmation for the envelope. I sent it away, giving it a gentle kiss, sighing happily because my new phone didn't cost nearly as much as I had originally paid for it.

And then, I was brutally rebuffed. No check ever came. Suddenly, the cost of the phone loomed over me, and I swear that I heard faint laughter coming from the direction of the processing plant in Nevada. Those fuckers were out snorting lines off hookers asses and shooting craps instead of processing MY rebate! They were living the good life, throwing people's dreams into the shredder so they could knock off work twenty minutes early. I just knew this was the way it was going down.

I tried to call them to figure out why they were trying to hurt my feelings. They had no answer. Like an abusive boyfriend, they weren't my partner, they were dictators, causing me pain. But like so many others, I couldn't leave. I signed a contract to be with that boyfriend, who spat on me, punched me in the face, and regularly charged overage fees.

I went through this process several more times. I figured, why switch boyfriends when this one basically got the job done, even though I had to put up with some shit? I knew it got a lot worse with others. So I stayed, and kept taking the hits. Over and over I experienced the same things--that unmistakeable distance in their voice, and a marked unwillingness to help when I needed it the most. I started to believe that I was unworthy of humane treatment. "It could still get a lot worse," I thought, "so just grin and bear it."

Then, I found an out. My boss wanted me to get a company phone, and they weren't going to use my current provider. I had to break my contract, and they were going to pay for it. My knight in shining armor convinced me that I was worth more than what I was getting, so I packed my bags and got the hell out.

At first, it was like heaven. Sure, my service dropped out once in a while, and people had trouble hearing me when I was on La Cienega and Santa Monica, but I figured nothing is perfect. I'll take zero reception in West Hollywood over a bruised soul anytime.

Eventually, it came time for me to get a new phone. I wanted to keep the same brand, as I had all the accessories. The only phone they had that would work with my needs was the step UP from my old model, and it was expensive. But...it had a rebate offer to lessen the pain.

Once you've been burned, you can never shake the sickness that comes from seeing it happen all over again. I got that feeling then, in that T-Mobile store. I braced myself to just pay full price and not expect anything in return. I set my sights on taking the high road, and avoiding another dissatisfying relationship.

I sent the form in anyway. And sure enough, I received my Rebate Rejection Letter in the mail yesterday. As I skimmed the courier font that held no love for me, I bit my lip. It was all happening again. My hands started to shake. My eyes welled up with fresh, salty tears, and I felt my knees go weak. "Why me?" I wondered. "Other people must get their rebates. This can't be a worldwide conspiracy. Why am I not smart enough to fill the form in right? Why couldn't I have taken that Rebate-Getting course in college? When am I going to see some money back from these sadistic fuckers?"

And my eyes fell on the last paragraph. I could dispute the rejection. All of a sudden, the skies cleared. I now was certain that I could make them understand, and that with one phone call, I could make them love me like Sprint never did. "At least they wrote me a letter," I thought. "So go get 'em, tiger!"

I wandered through endless menus. They have one of those automated voice recognition things, which I hate (I'm positive that I'm joined by all of the cell-phone using population on this one). The voice you speak to is some smug, bitchy woman who is obviously a failed voice-over actress and hates her life. Her tone is syrupy, but has a metallic aftertaste. I quickly decided to name the woman's voice Rachel, since throughout time, girls named Rachel always hate me.

I asked Rachel to send me to customer care. She ignored me and asked me my social security number. I said, "Customer care." She responded, "I didn't hear you." I repeated, louder and with ridiculous enunciation, "CUSTOMER CARE." Silence. Then, she repsonded in the only way women know how when they've lost. She said, "Okay." But the last syllable had a raised octave compared to the first, which is unmistakably the passive aggressive indication that you have won this round, but she is not having sex with you for four days.

For the next 45 minutes, I was put on hold, transferred, and even engaged in a three-way (call). Finally, after no one could come up with a good reason as to why I shouldn't have this rebate, the operator just credited my account.

I was stunned. After years of being ignored, all of a sudden I had WON! I was finally with someone who would listen to me and make some magic happen just BECAUSE! I hung up and was filled with a blessed light. This just might throw my rough streak. And I keep finding myself distracted by my love for my phone, which is sitting next to me, delivering sweet text messages from my Man and enlightening calls from friends. This is the life I have been waiting for.

*And to note, I still don't count this as actually receiving the rebate. I see it as more of a situation where someone finally felt bad for keeping me on the phone for the better part of an hour. Since I never lost my temper and always said Please and Thank You, I got what I wanted. So, don't worry about Armageddon just yet. This whole Hurricane Rita thing? And the war? Etc? Not the end of days. We still have a ways to go.*

dinner's on me. g

Out of Alignment

2005-09-22T21:26:00.000-07:00

Usually, when I go see a jolly good double feature with the Mighty G, that makes everything right in the world. Somehow, as the credits roll, the planets realign and as I emerge from the theater, there is a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I am ready to take some hits, have some triumphs, and start the whole process over again.

But this time, even though the company was top-notch and the movies were decent, my head still hurts. My eyes are dry. My underwear keeps riding up. I can't seem to clean my room, even though the right lighting is on and the Sirius is bumpin'. I just don't feel so good.

The week has been full of fuck-ups on my part. I am not getting anything done, and if there's anything that kills the HellCat, it's spinning wheels. Somehow, I feel less muscular and less talented and less anything. I feel lesser. Why is that? A sudden hormonal change? An adrenal crash, or perhaps some thyroidal woes might send this fragile one into a tailspin, maybe that's it.

I had a bad dream last night. I dreamt that my old friends from Denver were having a reunion party (which they actually are, in real life). My pal's Land Cruiser pulled up to the curb of my Denver house, as it has so many times before. I watched through the open blinds of my childhood bedroom as my friends fell out of the car, laughing and yelling. I answered the door, and everyone was drunk and crazy, which immediately turned me off. I hate playing catch-up to the rest of the already-pissed crowd; it never fails to make me turn on my heel and leave an event. When everyone is shitfaced but me? That's a lot to live up to, I'd rather watch a movie.

Anyway, I tell them to get into the car before my born-again Christian parents see them and forbid me to leave the house. They comply, and as I go to my room to give myself the once-over, I realize that I'm in my pajammy-jammers and I need to change. So, I throw on some jeans, but everything else I put on doesn't fit. Not in an "I've gotten fat" way--the clothes are missing armholes or my head won't fit through the neck of the shirt. Eventually, I find something that is free of defects. I turn around and look through my bedroom window again to see that the Land Cruiser is gone.

They left me behind.

And then I heard the tune of "The Entertainer" come from the sky, since my phone alarm went off. I woke up depressed.

That kind of describes my week. I feel like nothing is really working the way I want it to, and when I finally manage to make something happen, it's too late anyway.

bollocks. g

Naked in a Communist Flag

2005-09-21T00:31:00.000-07:00

Continuing my recent fascination with the past, I opened The Toolbox tonight.

For over ten years now, I have owned a toolbox that had a lock on it, keeping all my most private items safe from prying eyes (with the wandering pupils mostly belonging to my father). It's been a couple of years since I've even thought about it. I figured with everything that's been happening recently, I might as well open it up.

The jewelry is on top.

None of it is worth anything to a pawn shop. But it's an invaluable link to the Old Me. There's my high school ring, the ring that my pal Whip gave me for Strength and Everlasting Protection (her parents were hippies), and the piece of jewelry I received from a boy that he slipped on my finger at a restaurant one balmy summer night. There are a couple pairs of earrings my mom bought me from France that make my ears hurt, too (which means they aren't made of a precious metal like those dirty frogs told her they were).

Right now, I'm wearing all of the rings, a necklace, one pair of earrings, and have the rest of the treasures balanced on my thighs. Having properly outfitted myself for the expedition, I am ready to dig further into my history.

The pictures are next. There aren't as many of them as I thought there would be. These are the ones that my parents would have locked me up for taking...among the most notable are me in a bikini armed with squirt guns and fierce sunglasses, a group photo of scantily clad youths on a pool table, and me wrapped in a communist flag.

Naked, that is. The photo is of me, sans even one stitch of clothing, wrapped in a bright red communist flag. I am sitting on the piano bench of the Kerr home, straddling it, and there is a look on my face that would make any respectable woman blush. The girl in the photo is daring someone to take the flag off and help themselves to what is theirs, hers, and everyone else's underneath the premise of communism. "Thank you, Karl Marx!" some young man would say in PhotoLand, "I shall fight for glory and a united world between this girl's milky white..." You get the idea. It's a slutty picture, mostly because it pretends to be so innocent. Those are the worst kind.

Some diary entries that I read are strikingly similar to the shit that I write on this blog everyday. Silly me, I thought that these ideas were fresh and new to this cranium, but I've been thinking them since I was 13. I told myself to remember that this life is worth living, and that there is so much wonder to behold. Whether it was in Mister Langner's eighth grade math class, or at Cherry Creek Mall when the boys were alternating between rollerblading and hugging us in attempts to snap our bras, the joy was there. That girl who was writing in the pink, flowery diary knew that something special is out there, everywhere. All you have to do is let it reveal itself.

It's nice to know I haven't changed that much.

It works the opposite way, too. The things that bothered me then are the same things that really get me today. I hated it when people were dishonest or just following the crowd. I also hated returning people's phone calls, which I still despise (getting me to check my voicemail is like pulling teeth). When I felt neglected or unloved, I withdrew and lost the ability to see the color in the picture. And the color was difficult to get back, as I recall.

Also, suitors take note: in '93, my dream date with my then-boyfriend was holing up in a video game with seats that allowed us to race cars in semi-privacy. It also allowed us to make out inbetween games rather inconspicuously. That hasn't really changed, either. Who wants to take me to the arcade?!

I just took a quick writing break to focus on a few letters from a friend I've known since before The Toolbox was created. I am suddenly overwhelmed with how closely I hold those dear to me. There are so many pieces of paper in that box that hold so many emotions, and the ones that have the most weight are from people who are still a part of my life today. Although my life is constantly rocked by my desire for upheaval, I know a good thing when I see it. Some people and things live inside the part of me that I will never leave behind.

It's nice to know that everybody else hasn't changed that much, either.

"All I want's some barbeque and a little revolution."

never let go. g

My Jacob Marleys

2005-09-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

Life is a precarious balance between "Learning from your Past" and "Living in the Now." If you can do both, you're set. You've got experience behind you, but you can enjoy the moment you're in.

I've been thrown out of balance lately.

In a kind of happy accident kind of way, I have come into contact with tons of people from my past. At this point, I've got each level of school covered--some from elementary, some middle school, one from high school, and another from college. None of it would have been possible witout the internet...god bless it.

The funny thing that they all have in common is that when these cherished friends of old write, they are touting me as the "wild/crazy/cool" girl from Denver. Now, one of them knew me best when I was 12. Was I really wild and crazy then?

I could understand my college buddy making that call...Back in good ole Austin, it might have been the topless parties on the sundeck or constant wig-wearing sans irony that made me Wild. I'll buy that for a dollar. But back when I was a wee pre-teen, what did I do that made me Crazy? Was it the abundance of leg-warmers in my wardrobe or the fact that I watched a lot of Bewitched re-runs on TV? Was I just naturally less lame than the other kids, therefore making me the Mayor of Cooltown?

Whatever it is, I'll take it.

Some people have found me on everyone's fav networking site, Myspace. My profile image that you see above really makes those introductory emails more interesting. The common question of "What have you been up to?" becomes kind of difficult to answer, because "I'm a girl in Los Angeles trying to make a living as en editor," sounds like a filthy lie when you look at my photos.

The photo makes it seem more like..."I live in Berlin, and am a professional dominatrix. I spend alternating weeknights impersonating Annie Lennox and Nell from the Rocky Horror Picture Show (when I can borrow the gold sequined hot pants from my transvestite neighbor). Also, I enjoy fucking stand-up comics...and anyone else for that matter, occasionally at the same time--as long as the comic thinks the other one is funny enough to get naked with. If you're interested in illegal activities such as fencing stolen goods, writing communist manifestos on Big Chief tablets, golden showers, dying animal fur bright pink or piercing a baby's ears without parental consent, call me."

I figure that I should rejoice in the way I present myself to the general public, and cross my fingers that they're not fundamentalist Christians who have access to my home address.

It's kind of fun living in those memories for a bit. I'm dredging up all the things those folks would say about me. We shared afternoons at the skating rink, long talks about boys, concerts, school recitals, boredom, homework, and their suitemate seeing me without a shirt on when I went to use the restroom...

This has been a pretty wild life, so far. Is mine really that much more crazy than yours? I don't think so. The difference might just be that I take the time to notice. Say, for instance, that this is the second mention of golden showers in the blog in the last week.

Truly, truly, truly outrageous. g

Yarr.

2005-09-16T09:26:00.000-07:00

My pirate name is:

Iron Prudentilla Bonney

A pirate's life isn't easy; it takes a tough person. That's okay with you, though, since you a tough person. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate's life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

Bird's Eye View

2005-09-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

I was at Bird's, visiting a friend I hadn't seen in ages. He was working behind the bar pouring drinks, schmoozing, and winking at full speed, as it was a busy night. After he poured my whiskey, neat, he introduced me to the man sitting next to me.

As we talked, and I accepted this man's many compliments about my "radiating beauty" and gorgeous "angel kisses (aka freckles)." Although I was flattered and thanked him very much, I mentioned that I was meeting my Special Man Friend momentarily. After he got done groaning over "the one that got away" and all that, I asked him where he was from.

It turns out that this was one interesting dude.

His mother is from Cleveland, and his dad is Israeli. He grew up in Paris, and had just arrived in LA the day before after serving in the Israeli army.

At one point, we toasted to Los Angeles and the wonders it holds for everyone, and then he asked me how he was going to find a girlfriend in this town. He moaned over how lonely he was (which the waifs find super attractive). I told him that he seemed nice, so he was sure to have some luck (although money wouldn't hurt, I thought to myself).

I mentioned that his Israeli heritage was bound to reel in some foreign-loving hotties, and he shushed me frantically. He was like, "Don't announce that I'm Israeli!" in a yell loud enough for the valet across the street to hear.

I told him to relax, that my mom told me the Jews are God's people. Plus, as my My Pablo pointed out later, you can't throw an anti-semitic rock around this city without hitting one anyway.

He calmed down and mentioned that he was glad to be gone from that "horrible place, where they were fighting for nothing." I thought of how lucky he was, moving to a place where all of us are working towards intangible, fleeting goals. In other words, a town where we were fighting for nothing.

He air-kissed me on the cheek goodbye, and I told him to keep his chin up. He'd already been shot in the side, so it was really only up from there. Right?

It's funny how the only thing I really understand about the whole Israeli-Palestinian conflict is how everybody involved mostly just wants to stop fighting, drink some Heineken, and get laid.

glenlivet. g

Suspicious.

2005-09-14T13:39:00.000-07:00

You know, I was never a big fan of raisins. I am more of a dried cranberry kind of gal, and sometimes prunes fit the bill when my iron levels are low. The other night, though, Jeffy was in charge of the salad and he brought over greens, heirloom tomatoes, Goddess dressing, and golden raisins.

Unlike golden showers, golden raisins taste great with dressing and greens.

But like golden showers, the mere thought of them makes me wrinkle my nose and ask "Why?"

First of all, what kind of god-forsaken, pasty grape do they come from? Once I figured out that raisins are just dehydrated grapes, my mind was at ease. But, fast forward a couple weeks to now, and I am baffled again. I pulled out the old INTRANET and did some typing.

Blog Montage:
CU-Grae adjusting her glasses and leaning into the screen inquisitively
INS-Pencil writing feverishly on lined notebook paper
MS-Grae at the computer, typing and biting her lip
INS-Computer screen that reads "Golden grapes are a myth and you just ate some moldy Trader Joe's remnant grapes..."
CU-Grae gasping indignantly
ECU-Same text as before. It reveals the closing word of the sentence, which is "SUCKER!!!"
WS-Grae shoving her chair back angrily and tipping the desk over in an angry rage
Title Card-Later that night...
MS-Grae finds a golden grape on the floor among the ruins. She sniffs it, blows off some lint that is on it, and eats it.

Turns out that some people call these things muscats. Wasn't that a song? Muscat Love? Anyway, they are "made of white muscat grapes which are seeded, specially oven-dried (rather than by sun), and treated to retain their light color. Some golden raisins are dried Thompson seedless raisins which have been kept light by the use of sulfur dioxide."

Mine are the sulfur dioxide kind. Maybe that's why they taste better when coated in creamy, garlicky dressing.

I have always loved trying new things, as long as it didn't involve clowns or disturbing my digestive tract (that's why my ex and I broke up). I am still wary of these little gold thingies sitting on my desk. They taunt me in their Glad snack-size bag. They sound like the nuns at my old Catholic school. "We're married to God, of course we don't masturbate!"

jesus. g