Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood

My Zany Years Spent Working in Tinsel Town

MsCheevious

Mummy Terrorism

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My girlfriend Sheila and I took our boys to see the new Mummy flick last weekend on opening night. 

 

We bought the tickets in advance at an older theatre in Westwood, which is disappointing enough as it is, because the seats have springs poking you in the tuckuss, and there are NO cup holders – GEEZ – but it’s what happened at the theatre (during the movie) that could have destroyed our evening – by, well, killing us! (I am quite the drama queen, aren’t I?)

After sitting for a few minutes, quietly enjoying the previews, Sheila leaned over to whisper to me, “That guy just left a bag sitting there.”  I looked at her and inquired, “What guy? Like a real bag? Or a bag of popcorn?”  “No, a real bag.  He and his girlfriend got up to walk out and he set the bag down on the floor before he left.”  “Where?”  She quickly pointed to the seats directly in front of us, two rows up.

Well, now.  I think now is the perfect time to jog your memory a bit, on the matter of a little hike Sheila and I took some time ago in “Forget the Love Guru.”  If you are new here, welcome.  Feel free to peruse that post before moving onward, as it could provide you some important background on Sheila. But I warn you.  These posts are not for the faint of heart! hee hee

Remember in that situation, how Sheila “leaned in and whispered” to me, as if to take a sip from her camel back, only to pose the hysterical question of “How do you work this thing?”  That alone should have been reminiscent enough for me to beware and realize that when Sheila’s inner danger meter goes off, maybe I ought to use my brain and assess the situation intelligently on my own. But somehow I always get that “Drama A-D-D.” I’m so quickly distracted by a juicy possibility or anything of interest at all, and I get carried away into her little blond fantasy-land. HA HA.

That said, if you want to get me to do something, and quick, present me with the threat of an act of terrorism – or some really bad practical joke, and I am the girl to save the day.  I don’t mess around.  If there is imminent danger or even the remote possibility of it, I will be the first to act – especially if my child is in the vicinity. In that case, look out! I don’t care if it does cause a stir on the opening night of The Mummy at a little theatre in Westwood. Sheila knew all she needed to say was her version of, “Your mission, should you choose to accept it” – and I was on the job of disseminating the Mummy Terrorist Plot.

Like an undercover agent, I calmly race-walked to the concession stand and told the employees what had taken place. I explained to the clerk that he would quickly come with me and take the bag away, so the patrons (and I) could enjoy the movie and get on with life – that we all expected to be able to watch it, go home to our loved ones, and live another day to tell about it.

As I was leading the guy to the scene, the person one row in front of us was coming out as well to take care of the matter.  Thank god, I’m not the only smart person. I thought.  The guy looked concerned, and said, “Oh good, you got someone.  Yeah – he left this bag there, and it was really weird.”

So, we both led the guy to the spot, and watched as he carried it away.

I sat down next to Sheila, and she whispered, “Yeah it was really weird.  It had all kinds of weird stuff like boxes and stuff in it.”  I didn’t think to ask how  she knew this, since I couldn’t tell what was in the bag, and I’d actually gotten up to look at it, but she continued. “Yeah.  The guy was really weird looking too.  He was with his girlfriend or whatever and he had this really greasy and stringy long blond hair.”  “Really?”  I asked. 

Then after a couple of minutes, I asked, “So do you think you should go and tell those kids (from the concession stand) to call the police, in case there was something dangerous in the bag?”  My beautiful blond friend said – true to British form (far more fearful of drawing attention to herself than imminent doom), “No. At least they took it out of HERE,” with a slight uncomfortable chuckle.  I laughed sarcastically, “Oh, right!  Well, if we go to heaven tonight, it was nice knowing you!”  We laughed, while I administered my own last rites silently to myself, just in case.

It was then – about two or three minutes afterward that we saw her – a somewhat odd looking girl, walking down the far side of the auditorium and taking a seat several rows in front of us on the far right side.  This was followed shortly thereafter by a big guy on our side of the aisle, apparently trying to find this girl, his old seat, and – could it be? – his BAG??? He was tall, and had long greasy, stringy blond hair.  He kinda looked like he was lost (or on something), as he looked around, saw his girl on the opposite side of the auditorium, and went to join her.  I looked sideways at Sheila who had a sheepish, guilty, and oh-so British grin on her face.

I’m sorry folks.  This was just TOO funny!  And so embarrassing!  I could not believe Sheila’d gotten me involved in one of her blond-haired, blue-eyed capers again.  Gone are the days that my dear friend can blame me for being a bad influence on her!  I think we can all agree now that Sheila and I are equal partners in crime, for sure!

Before you get upset, know this: The two culprits with the bag actually did end up disrupting the entire movie.  I think they were so strung-out on something they didn’t realize when they were yelling during silent moments, and such.  It got so bad that management was forced to warn them of being kicked out of the theatre, before they got themselves under control.  Turns out they really were terrorists – well, the non-murderous sort, for sure. More like the pesky, bothersome kind. Ha ha!

I must say, it was really great to get out alive – and by this I mean, I am thankful we survived that horrible movie.  Regarding our mysterious drug addicts – well those poor people lost their bag, perhaps their last remaining possession, which was probably incinerated by the time they thought to inquire at the concession stand.  All the while, Sheila and I snuck out, got into the car and drove ourselves home, secretly and silently.

Gotta love mass hysteria and its effects on the population. Well, at least on Sheila and me.

Until next week, my sweets, when we’ll talk about how chickens really DO have lips. I should know.  I kissed Fred the Wonder Chicken.

Love you people!  Mmmmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

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Fred the Wonder Chicken, Fattening Salad and Prolixity

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1. “Fred the Wonder Chicken” is not one of my own alias concoctions.  It is an alias, yes  – of a very cool guy (who’s also an actor) I met recently, and who, in addition to being ~hot~  is exceptionally funny. I told him about my blog, and explained his need for an alias, which he kindly provided.  Gotta love it when a guy offers to provide his own alias.  A man after my own heart. Well, I looked Fred up on IMDB, and guess what?  He was one of the actors on some really awesome episodes of Dynasty.  Okay.  He’s done much more than that, but if I told you more, I’d have to kill you, and how tough would that be in cyberspace?  Besides, it would ruin all my fun to divulge too much, now wouldn’t it?  Sorry kiddies, I’ll have to suss this one out before I share more.  Suffice it to say, FWC seems kind, genuine (did I say ~hot~??), and is loads of fun.  I am definitely a fan.
Which one is FWC?
Which one is FWC?

2. What is the point of a fattening salad?  Interestingly, just yesterday there were news reports of how fattening even a Chicken Caesar salad can be – all the calories, salt and fat grams allowed for the entire day!  What is THAT about? And you thought you were being “good”  to forgo a cheese burger for that.  Fuhhhgetttabowdit!  You may as well skip it and go straight for the mountain of supreme nachos or the mound of sweet potato french fries.  Listen – in MY mind, mixed greens and veggies on a salad ought to cancel out the calories and fat grams from the candied walnuts, gorgonzola cheese and decadent dressing.  Geez, the chewing alone ought to cancel them out. They don’t, and it doesn’t.

3. I love the word “prolix.”  Extra points if you know what it means, and if you can tell me why I love it.  Think about it.  No wise-cracks either.  It’s time to use your minds boys and girls (and make sure they are your clean, innocent minds from your childhood).

Oh, guess what?  You’ve just been treated to the second Ms. Cheevious LIST installment — ever!  The first, if you recall was when I wrote about Sir Tab – remember?  Ahhh, is this what meeting knew people does to me?  This is very interesting.  Hmmmmm. 

If you are new here, welcome – and congratulations for taking a walk on the wild side.  I promise, I won’t hurt you – at least not intentionally. 

Love you people!  Mmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!

xoxoxo
Ms. Cheevious

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Black Out This!

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What does it mean when you black out?  Like, forget entirely and completely something that actually happened?  And, not the kind of black outs people have after child abuse or trauma, but like – just in general?  Is it just a sign of utter and complete blondeness?  I ask this because I have two very poignant examples. 

A few years ago my girlfriend Kat and I went to Manhattan Beach (that’s in Southern California, not New York) to celebrate the Fourth of July.  We drank and had fun, and so many funny things happened that night that I cannot even go into here, but we drank responsibly.  We cabbed our way around the little party town after we parked my car at a friend’s house near the downtown strip. 

A little incident occurred that evening. While attempting to retrieve my car at the end of the night, we were shocked to see that it was gone- apparently stolen!  Teary-eyed and voices wobbling, we called our respective significant others for comfort, as we made the long cab journey all the way back to my place in Westwood.  I went through the entire process of reporting the car stolen to the police, and dealing with how to get around in Los Angeles without a car, when about six days later, the Manhattan Beach police called me to say they’d found my car, and miracle of miracles, it was not totally destroyed.  I asked my son’s babysitter to take me down to the station, where I hopped in the car with a very nice female officer who drove me to where the car was parked. 

It wasn’t until the very instant that the cop turned the corner on a particular street that the black out began to wear off, and the veil began to lift.  As we neared the spot where the culprits had left my car and I could see my car parked there (in perfect condition), I began to recall a little scenario that had taken place toward the end of our big, giant, Fourth of July celebration. As the cop made comments about how it was odd there were no signs of a break in, and the entire dash and ignition was still intact, (and I in turn nodded, with big, wide-eyed innocence replying, “Yeah!  That’s so weird!  Wonder how they did that?!”) I remembered my girlfriend and I grabbing my car two hours earlier on the evening in question and parking it there (just a half block from where it had been).  I recalled our hobbling over to the parking restriction sign, our faces within inches of it to see whether we were allowed to park it there, just before we went into the all-night cafe across the street for breakfast. 

Now my car sat there in the Southern California sun, with a stack of about 10 or 20 parking tickets piled onto the windshield. I pointed at them, asking, “What happens with those? Do I have to pay those?” The lovely officer informed me that, “No, ” they don’t require victims of auto theft to pay violations on the vehicle.  ‘Ahhhaaa,’ I thought.  ‘Note to self.”  HA HA! 

So, I got into my car after signing the appropriate paperwork, and called Kat.  She STILL did not remember anything. I had to give her a play by play before she would even accept what had happened.

Did we drink so much that we suffered temporary BRAIN DAMAGE?  Or was it our true BLONDENESS that caused the extended black out? 

The second incident happened over four years ago, and I was totally oblivious to it until a few weeks ago. I dated this guy, Spyglass, a few times when I lived here in LA the last time.  We’d met at my son’s hockey games and hit it off.  He was there for his daughter’s ice skating lessons, and just the fact that he was a single dad won me over.  Well, for various reasons Spyglass and I never pursued anything very serious, but we always maintained a “friendship.”  As a matter of fact, it was a very convenient “friendship.” The kind that can be very satisfying, if ya’ know what I mean.  This continued even when I moved to Aspen.  I would come back to Los Angeles on business, give Spyglass a call to meet for drinks, where one thing would lead to another, and I’d end up at his place for at least a few hours.  Sad for a liberated woman to demean herself so, you say?  Well, I’m happy to provide fodder for the liberal femmes out there, as it offered me a moment’s pleasure in a time that I really needed (or wanted) it!    Pathetic, I know. How totally self-indulgent, right? Yep. You got it.  But hey – I was divorced, and discovering what made me happy after many years of being very stifled and unhappily married.  So sue me.  But back then it was just fine by me. 

Until one night, apparently.

Spyglass and I had our drinks, we went back to his place, and I do recall being a bit awkward, like not as “lovey dovey” as I could be.  But in MY recollection, I said my good byes, got in my car in the morning, went to work, and flew home, never really to hear from Spyglass again.  I made a phone call once where he promised to call me right back, but he never did.  It had always perplexed me a bit, but I created a picture in my mind of Spyglass meeting the perfect woman, settling down, and letting that deviant part of his life slip silently into his past.

Fast forward to 2008.  I move back to LA and decide Spyglass and I should at least reconnect.  I truly do not want anything from him except friendship at this point, and besides, he is a nice guy, who may be able to send some work my way as I expand my business.  I ring Spyglass and  leave a message (to be “heard” below as portrayed by Spyglass himself) that I’d love to get together.

Spyglass and I get together at his usual after-work stop, the Brentwood Grille.  I sit next to him at the bar, give him a peck on the cheek, and order a club soda (anti-biotic-induced sobriety for the evening).  We chit-chat for a bit, when he weaves into the conversation a sarcastic, “Yeah, I remember our last meeting.” “Why? What do you mean?” I ask.

“You don’t remember, do you?” He asks, looking into my eyes.  “I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “Why, what happened?”

“We went back to my place, and we  — well, you know — and afterward, you got all upset and said things like I only wanted you for sex, and that you were better than that, and you didn’t want to ever see me again. Then you left.”

I think he is kidding, but he isn’t.  I literally have absolutely NO recollection of that incident!  I am dumbfounded, and I tell him as much.  I apologize profusely for what I couldn’t even fathom saying.  It so does NOT sound like me!

“Well, I thought it was weird, because you were always such a sensual person, and to say something like that was pretty odd!”  We laugh hysterically now (or is it just me?). 

He continues, “So, when you called and left me a message, ‘Hi Spyglass – It’s me!  I moved back to LA, and I don’t want to have sex or anything, but let’s get together!’ I thought it was pretty funny!”

“I did NOT say THAT!” I insist.  “I SAID  ‘I just moved back, and I’m not looking to ‘hook-up’ or anything, but I’d love it if we could reconnect and be friends again.'” 

“Well, whatever you said, I thought it was pretty friggin’ hilarious to hear you say that after your last words to me a few years ago!” 

We laugh and reminisce some more, and with that, Spyglass and I say our good nights, vowing to indeed stay friends. For now.

So there you have it. Two VERY different situations, one very BLONDE chick!

Black outs are not for wimps, I tell ya. 

I have to say, it has been quite a ride going from being a sheltered housewife to a divorcee with attitude, to finally being content to just BE.  BE me, in my skin, my hair, my body, my face, my career, my personality – all good.  And BE a mom – and all the wonder and beauty that entails.  Priceless.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone, and if you drink – do it responsibly, would you?

Love you people!  Mmmmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

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Forget the Love Guru. He’s Freakin’ Tupac Chokra!

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My friend Stealth cracks me up.  He is one of those “super-athletes,” who is the type of person that even when he’s sick with bronchitis, can still blow into that lung test thing at the hospital and gather an awe-struck crowd because of the Olympian levels that thing reaches.  You know what I’m talking about.  It’s just plain disgusting that someone can be so stinkin’ fit – even when they are sick.

Stealth’s had some health issues that the doctors can’t seem to figure out, yet he still manages to make people (especially me) laugh. Go figure.  He’s got a rock-hard body, with the lung capacity of a killer whale, and even though at times he truly thinks he might actually die from this ailment no one can figure out, still manages to crack jokes and remain fairly jovial.  The only thing that makes Stealth feel good or somewhat normal, however, is exercise.  Gee, I’m surprised.

We’re not talking about a little jog around the track either, girls and boys.  This guy RUNS FAST up hill, up the steepest inclines of some of the tallest mountains and cliffs around.  It makes me look like a really sad excuse for a wannabe athlete – me in my little Reeboks and Juicy Couture athletic attire.  Oh – I can hike and rock climb right off the couch, popcorn smeared all over my face (laugh it up, those of you who know this to be true) after watching the latest episode of House – and I can even shock some people at how well I do, but Stealth BLOWS me and any other athlete I’ve ever known out of the water. It’s just not right. But I digress.

Stealth told me the other day how he RAN up this trail called the RIM TRAIL in Moab, Utah. 

Okay – I lived in Moab.  That trail is THE HARDEST trail I’ve ever done – at least in terms of sheer exercise.  It’s INCREDIBLE. 

That is the Rim Trail.  The trail starts way over to the right (not in the picture) and continues at an insanely steep incline, ALONG THE TOP.  You have to get UP THERE. 

Well, Stealth use to be happy just hiking up that thing. Now he RUNS it.  And apparently, he doesn’t stop there.

“Yeah, I ran up the Rim Trail, and then I continued on to Hidden Valley (beyond the top of the Rim Trail), and when I got up to the top, I did a few Sun Salutations and some stretches, and came down.” 

I was listening to him describe his workout, still in awe over the fact that he RAN that trail, AND that he continued PAST it. Then I heard “Sun Salutations.” Normally music to my ears. 

For just a moment I was transported to Urth Cafe on Melrose, where many-a-yogi can be overheard chatting about how many Asanas they did that day. 

Some of you may not remember this, but I use to teach Yoga.  Yeah, I know, I know.  Me, with my PrAna yoga clothes, saying “namaste” everywhere I went.  It was hilarious to some of you, I’m sure, but I love yoga!  So, I asked, “Sun Salutations?  You did Sun Salutations?”  This shocked me.  I’ve known Stealth a long time.  As a matter of fact, I have tried countless times to get him to practice yoga on a regular basis, knowing it would only help him with his health issues.

Without missing a beat, Stealth said “Hell yeah!  I am FREAKIN’ Chakra Kahn now!”  I BURST OUT LAUGHING!

So the play on words began: 

“How about Six-Pack Chakra,” I said.

“No  I’m FREAKIN’ TUPAC CHOKE-YA” he returned. 

After a few iterations, we settled on Tupac Chokra (not to be confused with Deepak Chopra, the Love Guru or any other Guru) in the end.  So Stealth’s great YOGI impersonation could finally begin!! Hilarious.

I’m sure you’ve all known someone, maybe even yourself, who’s impersonated a REAL athlete at times?

Why, my friend Sheila and I did it just the other day. We decided to go on a hike.

So – I don’t know if I told you?  I live in L.A.?  You know?  Los Angeles?  There are beaches, an awe-inspiring ocean and at times, death-defying waves.  There are some beautiful hills, but not much in the way of cliffs and mountains, at least not like the Rocky Mountains I’ve grown accustomed to from living in Colorado and Utah for the past few years.

We drove to Will Roger’s State Park to do the little hike-loop-thing they have.  I decided I’d bring my two Camelbacks so we wouldn’t have to carry water bottles, as it was a little warm that day.  Sheila had these really great new shoes on, and I complimented her.  “Ooh.  I like your shoes!” I said, enthusiastically. 

“You bought them for me!” she laughed.  “I did?” I asked, surprised.  “Well, your gift card did!” I remembered doing that. 

“Wow! Good choice!  What are they?” I asked. 

“They’re hiking shoes!”  she replied in her British accent, “You muppet!” 

“Cool!” I said.  ‘The smog must be seeping into my brain already,’ I thought, ‘How could I not know those were HIKING SHOES?’  (Of course, on further analysis, it was obvious to me that my recognition skills weren’t amiss.  It was the idea of SHEILA wearing HIKING shoes that threw me.  It was oxymoronic!)

So, we both put the camelbacks on.  Sheila took the full-size one, so she could put her dog’s collapsible bowl and a bottled water inside for him on the trail. She thought it was so cool to have the Camelbacks, and said, “I almost bought one once, but just never got around to it.” 

Then as we started the hike, she exclaimed giddily (again with her British accent), “We’re going to look so professional!” We chuckled at that.  We certainly dressed the “avid outdoor enthusiast” part that day.  We even had a dog along to make it look SUPER real.

So a few minutes in, when we started to get to a slight incline (mind you, I am basically walking on this thing, not really noticing any “hike” sort of exertion at all), Sheila paused, causing me to turn back. She sort of turned toward me, as she turned her head, as if to suck on the straw of the camelback. 

Instead, while keeping a totally straight face, talking under her breath she said, “So, how do you work this thing?”  I cracked up!  We both did!  Here we were HIKING with Camelbacks and awesome hiking shoes, dog in tow, and she didn’t know how to use the equipment! What sad, pathetic excuses for hiking queens?  More like PRINCESSES, I’d say!  But when all was said and done, no matter how silly we were, or may have looked, we truly ENJOYED EVERY MOMENT!  HA!  And isn’t that the point?

So, this weekend, I want all of you to get outside and exercise.  Put on those old spandex biking shorts, Speedos and head-bands, and make a fool of yourself, if you want!  Just be sure to ENJOY IT, would you?

Until next week!

Love you people!  Mmmmmphhhuuuhhh!!

xoxo

Ms. Cheevious

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Declaration of Independence

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This week’s post is going to be a little different.  I am going to be extremely raw and open, refraining from berating, belittling or bedazzling anything or anyone I speak of.  Sound impossible for a fun-loving Ms. Cheeviouslike me?  Well, just you wait and see! 

If you are new here, welcome!  I am so glad you stopped by!  Normally these posts are filled with funny musings on life, love and relationships.  Not today.  Read on.

I’ve been living in Los Angeles since May 13th of this year.  I moved here, because I am a city girl, and it feels like home to me.  When I was gone, I missed my home.  It was a declaration of independence of sorts, as well.  I guess I felt I was losing myself and my independence to a place that didn’t feel like home, and I had to put a stop to it – and fast.

Now that I have been here, love it as I may, I am conflicted and sad, and unsure.  I feel as though in moving, I may have torn away some of the threads that make up pieces of who I am.  As if, even though I’ve woven a beautiful quilt made up of several layers and shapes, somehow, some of the very fabric that was a part of me was destroyed in the process.

I am a rational girl.  I know, in my mind, that this is simply not true.  I’ve not torn or destroyed anything.  I am happy, healthy – a world of opportunities open to me now that I am home.  And, isn’t it true that everything happens for a reason?  There are no regrets, only lessons, right?  Didn’t a wise woman once say that? (Well, Jennifer Aniston did – oops – sorry that slipped – hee hee). Mark Twain did say this, “There is no failure, there are no accidents, and there are no mistakes. They are all learning experiences and stepping-stones.”

The thing that makes this whole amalgamation of feelings so difficult is that I cannot come up with an answer.  I don’t have a simple excuse for why this is happening.  You know how sometimes you can say, “Listen girl. You screwed up!  Admit it!”  and the friend in question can admit it and take the appropriate steps to rectify the situation.  Not so, in the here and now. I can’t say that I screwed up – only that I have a deep sense of loss along with the good. I’ve not divined yet whether or not the gains outweigh the losses. And if they do not, I have no idea just what my plan or next step would be.

You know, since we are talking about these things – Independence and such – and it IS Independence Day weekend – let’s hear how our Forefathers imagined what independence was: 

We hold these truths to be sacred & undeniable; that all men are created equal & independant, that from that equal creation they derive rights inherent & inalienable, among which are the preservation of life, & liberty, & the pursuit of happiness.

The fact of the matter is that Independence, personal identity, life, liberty, etc. etc, though incredibly important- can trample so many other important things in life, if we are not careful. We must be extremely vigilant to guard those things (loyalty, friendship, respect, and many others) with the same diligence and dogma, if we are to be truly happy, at peace and free. 

I am feeling very introspective today, can you tell? HA HA!  Perhaps it is because my birthday is coming next week.  Yep.  I don’t mind.  I love my life, at any age.  I see it as being just one step closer to earning the respect of all those young whipper-snappers in the world today!  I am a Cancer – a water sign.  Good for living near the water, for sure.  As a matter of fact, all three of my signs (sun, rising and moon) are water signs. 

As I work through my own personal tidal wave of emotions, I will keep each of you in my thoughts.  I’ll leave you with a song for the weekend. It’s a beautiful song, and some of you know it:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s993u4qAyiw]

 

Have an incredibly peaceful and happy Independence Day.

Love you people!  Mmmmmmphhhhuuhhhhh!

xoxo,
Ms. Cheevious

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Hit Me Bee-otch!

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DISCLAIMER:  Today’s blog is NOT for everyone.  It’s full of all manner of debauchery, sexual inuendo and R-rated, if not X-rated content.  If you can handle that, read on.  Otherwise, see you next week!  It was so good to see you, if only for a moment!  Mppphhhuhhh!

As a follow-up to my What Happens in Vegas  post, I just have to tell this funny little tidbit from a friend of mine who just returned from The City That Never Sleeps (Wait.  Is that New York?) 

She’s my hair stylist, and ladies and gentlemen, THIS girl knows how to have fun.  She’s a chick with loads of a little trait I call pizazz.  She’s my “party girl” idol, I tell ya – always going on trips with big groups of girls and tearing things up along the way.  My own sisters and I use to do that, but I can’t get them to commit to it any more, so I live vicariously through Scissor Sister (oh yeah, you better believe that’s her name).

Well, Scissor Sister and a group of her girls were in Vegas for the weekend celebrating her 40th birthday.  They partied like rock stars.  “So much so,” she said, “that we were kicked out of one place.” I was chuckling along with her story, til I heard that. It totally took the wind out of my sails.  In Vegas?  I said out loud, incredulous.  Sin City?   How could it be?  I was losing my faith in the whole system, when I turned to her,  doe-eyed, with that look of desperate hopefulness and anticipation one might expect to see from someone wanting to be enlightened by their own personal guru.

Listen.  Of course I was doe-eyed, looking to be enlightened by Scissor Sister. I’d just returned from a trip to Vegas with my twelve year old son, where of course I didn’t participate in any sort of shenanigans, but I can dream can’t I?  I was trying to LIVE vicariously – not fizzle vicariously.  I needed to hear it was a mistake! If not, I needed to know the WHOLE story.

She elaborated. “Well, we were having sooooo much fun, you know? One of my girls had so much fun, we had to carry her home.” Hello.  I can relate.  Been there, done that.  New Orleans, 2002.  Not a pretty picture, and the hangover – Oh My God.  But I digress. 

“So, it was pretty cool, the way they did it.  The bouncer was really cool, and said he liked us, but we had to leave.  But we were pretty shocked.  MAYBE it had something to do with us getting really roudy and yelling “HIT ME, BITCH!” to the dealer all night.” She laughed. 

“No Way!” I said.  You got kicked out for saying “Bitch? In VEGAS?” 

“Yeah, right?  Ya think it was a little off?”  she said.  “They let us stay there as long as we were losing, but we started to win! And the dealer was totally cool!  She was laughing and she totally liked dealing to us.  Then they gave us some staunch Asian dude.  It totally sucked.” 

So, I had to ponder it.  How on earth did they get kicked out for saying “Hit me BITCH!” in a city like Vegas where prostitution is basically legal, and you can carry your cocktails from place to place? 

One might state the obvious here, that perhaps the better question is why do I care, and why am I asking?  You have to realize, I was born into a whole family of women that do this.  Don’t ask me why, but whenever faced with a dilemma, quagmire or problem, we MUST solve it.  I hate that I do this, but I do.  So, there it is.  Even if we AGREE with how it all worked out, our genetics don’t allow us to leave the situation alone.  We have to figure it all out.  We are driven by that gene making us unearth the beastly thing and show it to everyone.  Sad, I know.  Even if the “problem” is how some sleazy greasy dude, who likes to get cozy with little boys ended up working at an elementary school!  If you have this gene, you will come up with all manner of excuses in support of the obvious weakest link, like “Well, maybe he was thoroughly rehabilitated, or perhaps he got castrated and they thought it was safe!” Okay.  We don’t really go that far.  Ewe.

So I thought about it.

1)  Maybe it’s because of the strippers.  Strippers get called “bitch” all the time, and it hurts them.  This is Vegas’ way of protecting its own.  What if a stripper hears it and thinks it’s directed toward them? Strippers out their strutting their stuff, crying and blubbering does not look good?! Ya know?

2)  It’s the old people.  They were inadvertently gambling at the Senior’s Center, and the 90 year old lady next to them kept falling out of her chair every time they yelled.  Their insurance wouldn’t allow for that, so it was the 40 year old SAUCY girl and her friends or their license to operate. If you were the bouncer, you’d kick them out too.

3) Misery Loves Company.  They were surrounded by a bunch of lonely, boring people who were jealous that these girls were taking no prisoners while they ravaged the city. 

Okay, I will spare you any more.  It’s an illness. 

So, since my last trip to Vegas was somewhat (more like “very”) mundane by most of your standards – aside from the ever thrilling roller-coaster rides – I decided that “Hit me BITCH!” should be my new THANG.  Don’t get me wrong.  My trip was actually one of my all-time favorite times ever.  Riding those coasters with my son was priceless, and soon enough he won’t want me to do that!  I had a great time with some really great memories, that no one can take away.  But I just got a kick out of that whole “Hit me BITCH!” business.  

And of course, you know I had to solve THAT problem as well:  How does a bouncy, blue-eyed, blonde, blogging babe get away with saying “Hit me BITCH!”??  After pondering, I came up with a few scenarios. I’ll tell you.

1)  I take a lover that likes dirty talk.  If he doesn’t mind being called “bitch” I can say it when I want a little spanky.  hee hee!

2) I reserve it for times when my girls and I get together for drinks at someone’s house.  I have a cocktail, and slurp it down.  When they ask if I want a refill, I say —–  hellowwww? “HIT ME BITCH!”

3) I go to Vegas and Tempt Fate.  I play black-jack, and when they ask if I want to hold, or whatever, I yell it out – then quickly regain my composure, and sweet little ole innocent me bats my eyelashes at the bouncer nearby, and looks with a frown at the frigid girl next to me, as if SHE said it!  (just kidding.  I would never do that.  If I did, that frigid girl probably would take me up on my little phrase and HIT ME!)

Anyhoo – just wanted to fill you all in!  It’s been a fun one this week!  I hope you had as much fun!

Stay tuned for next week’s essay full of big words like “antidisestablishmentarianism.” You’ll be enlightened, and I won’t even ask you for that doe-eyed, innocent look.

Have a FANTASTIC weekend, would you? And wear sunscreen! (That’s the mommy in me).

Love you people!  Mmmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

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Blog content copyright 2008, LISA JEY DAVIS a.k.a. Ms. Cheevious