Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood

My Zany Years Spent Working in Tinsel Town

Daily Mischief

Got bees, anyone?

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I am allergic to bees, so in my world, bees are normally the enemy. Something sort of like “reaction-osmosis” occurs between me and other flying insects too, which makes them suffer as well. Poor bastards. I am programmed to squeal and dart like a bat out of hell, arms flailing any time a bee (or any other insect remotely resembling a bee (osmosis part)) flies within five feet of my personal space (which is quite large). Knowing this, you could say it would be a cold day in hell, the day I ask the question “Got bees, anyone?”

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THAT DAY HAS ARRIVED.

Because I’ve changed. People do, you know. As a mother of two boys, I can attest to the fact that people do change.

Ever since I read about the Plight of the Honey Bee, I realized how in danger we REALLY ARE of becoming seriously deprived of very important foods (DO NOT take my avocados away. You do NOT want to be around if that day ever comes, because I will cut people). It could happen. And all because of this nifty little invention that infused pesticides into seeds – “genetically modified seeds” (and now soil).

Ever since reading about that, I’ve been worried about the little buggers (pun intended). I’ve been looking high and low for the black and yellow creepers…even hoping to see them. It’s been very scant this summer.

I’m more than a little disturbed (even angered) that this hasn’t been dealt with swiftly… that production of the genetically modified seeds hasn’t been brought to a screeching halt and all affected soil taken to some dump some place far from any threat to humans. Aside from taking my steel spiked stilettos and using them as a weapon to bang some sense into the heads of — well, anyone involved, I’m not sure what else to do!

Is anything being done about this? And more importantly… do you have any bees?

THIS IS WHEN WE ARE SUPPOSED TO ASK WHY THERE IS NOT A PERSON IN CHARGE OF THIS PROBLEM.

 

And here is something. Apparently congress introduced a bill just this July to address part of the problem in the form of H.R. 2692- Saving America’s Pollinators Act of 2013, and you can read about that here. Then tell your member of congress to DO SOMETHING. Would you?

I need my bees, people.  We all do.

 

Boobed Lines – I mean Blurred Lines – Summer Tune

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I have to admit. I fell in love with Robin Thicke’s song “Blurred Lines” (now heretofore called “Boobed Lines”) before it became a chart topper. I can’t say that it was the mastery in musicianship that drew me in, no. It happened when a former client who is engaged to a guy in Thicke’s camp shared it on her timeline on Facebook, saying “Look at what my fiancé has been up to in NYC!” You gotta hand it to the girl for being a strong woman, and so far removed from being insecure that she shared it publicly. I love that! You go girl.

I decided I liked the video. “Like” for the song immediately followed, and now it’s one of those songs that gets my groove on.

I watched the video in amazement as these gorgeous, hot models paraded on and off the stage topless, bouncing their boobies proudly.  Who doesn’t like boobies? And given that we are fast approaching Ovarian & Breast Cancer Awareness Months, well guess what? I’m going to share the unrated version with you right here and now. Damn straight. Be PROUD if you have beautiful boobs ladies, and be proud of other women who are BODACIOUS and have the MOXY to strut their stuff, fearing not any repercussions.

 

HERE. HERE IS WHERE I WARN YOU THAT THIS VIDEO IS THE SKIN-FLICK, UNRATED (X-RATED) VERSION OF THE ORIGINAL.

 

At work, don’t like boobs, or happen to have kiddos around?

DON’T WATCH. DO NOT HIT PLAY.

 

Without further adieu, here is one of my new fav’s for the summer:

I’m in need of a decompression chamber

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M.C. and I returned late last night from a road trip out to New Mexico for my high school reunion. After driving thirteen-hours twice in less than four days (I was co-pilot, but it counts), I am in serious need of a decompression chamber. One with vodka. And chocolates. In fact, if I were designing a decompression chamber for myself, it would be a place stocked with those two things, and it would staff a full time Thai masseuse. Now we’re talking.

When driving across the great Southwestern corner of our nation, one surveys nifty little items such as Tee Pee-shaped gift shops (no really… the building was a Tee Pee. You can see one here) and various stone-colored fetishes at every other gas station between Albuquerque and Flagstaff. If you don’t know what a fetish is, well you’re in good company. My hoodlum brain happily went straight to the gutter when M.C. took me into a little shop in Old Town Albuquerque to hunt for “fetishes.” Imagine my disappointment when I walked out with this:Turtle Fetish

 

I’m kidding of course. I wasn’t disappointed. I was pleasantly surprised that these little guys represent various virtuous traits, and bestow gifts of strength to those posessing them. I chose the turtle, because he is the symbol of Mother Earth and gives the gift of longevity. Lord knows I need that.

The class reunion was held at the Sandia Resort & Casino in Albuquerque.  We learned pretty damn quick just how “Indian Gaming” works.  It works without alcohol, at least on the casino floor.

I know. My jaw was the only hint of alcohol that casino floor had ever seen, and that was the residual alcohol left-over in my mouth from the six cocktails I’d had during the dinner and slide show.

Yes, I’m exaggerating. It was four.

It wasn’t the first reunion the class had held, but it was the first I’d been able to make (I was busy being a single mommy, traveling the globe working on shows with MTV, and other networks, and stuff. People couldn’t blame me.). It also wasn’t the school I actually graduated from. But I was a JV Cheerleader at this school prior to running kicking and screaming as far away from Catholic School as I could get, to the public school I eventually graduated from. Whenever anyone asks why I would attend this reunion rather than my own, especially since I fought so hard to go to another school, I simply tell them the truth. I knew more people. Yes, it was partially because I was a cheerleader, but also because my years at public high school are a bit of a blur, due to the copious amounts of pot – I mean – alcohol – I mean – learning I did.

You see? I really do need a decompression chamber, for many reasons… not the least of which is to get out of finishing this post. I’ll be over here with my chocolate.

I No Longer Come To Your (Coffee) Store

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If you follow me on Facebook, you’ve no doubt seen this post:

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Suffice it to say, coffee is very important to me. I drink it all day long.

But if, by some miracle, my former favorite Los Angeles based coffee shop (cough! Coffee Bean! cough! and Tea Leaf! Cough!) were to miraculously notice I’d stopped coming in, and if, by some miracle of miracles they also happened to run into me on the streets of LA and ask why I stopped patronizing them, I’d say “I’m glad you asked.”

I could go on and on. But people, this is not rocket science. I’m a pretty happy person, in general. It doesn’t take much to make or keep me happy. Hell, you could simply amuse me and it could be diversion or entertainment enough to keep me coming back for more (this facet of my personality is evidenced by the fact I devoted an entire Daily Mischief post to the childhood taunt “Nanny nanny boo boo“).

Of course, the basic stuff has to be in place:

1) You must have a product or service I want or need.

2) You must keep the quality or aspects I found desirable in that product or service up to par, or at minimum, make damn sure your customer (like me) is ready for or understands the changes that are coming.

And so, my friends, I only share this because, dammit, our country use to be known for not only providing, but in truly “being” the creme de la creme in customer service. Premiere industrialists, technologists and biochemists after that, the United States was unparalleled. It had no competition when it came to creating top products, and backing it up with the absolute best in services provided. In all things, the US set the standard for good follow-up customer service as well. PERIOD.  So, here is the story of why I no longer go to said Coffee company’s store.

Number two above is hands down, unequivocally, the primary reason I left. They started jerking with the one and only real reason I still loved them… their flavored coffee. This, after they’d already taken away the other main reason I loved them – their “buy 10 cups, get one free card”.  I decided the loss of that perk was not a deal breaker. I understood why people would use them fraudulently to get free coffee all the time. I didn’t blame them for protecting their business and bottom line.

But one day, a few years ago they simply stopped serving flavored coffee altogether, opting instead for chemically treated powders which supposedly “tasted” like the flavors they were known for. They assured me these were the same powders used to treat the coffee. I tried them. I concluded I didn’t like trying to figure out on my own how much powder should be included in each cup I drank, nor should I have to. Besides, they just tasted chemically treated. I didn’t care if they used them on the beans in the past, at least they didn’t have an after-taste. And what kind of strange, out-of-left-field cockamamy idea was this, anyway? So I wrote a scathing letter, admonishing said coffee company for not knowing its customer or what he/she wanted… I reamed them for at minimum, not consulting with them before making such a wide-sweeping change. Whatever happened to focus groups? And why weren’t people like me – daily customers for over ten years – consulted, or at least a part of those focus groups? I brought up the other issues I’d seen over the years and had allowed to slide, but this? This was unforgivable. I sent the letter  to the president of the company, which was in turn handed over to someone who handled my complaint.  A couple of weeks later, the coffee was back.

I was elated!  Hurray! The process actually does work!  Or so I thought.

Something else you must know, is this same company began some years ago limiting how long the flavored coffee would be served each day. Some stores stopped serving it at 10 AM, others 11, 12, 1PM. It was a crap shoot trying to figure out which store you could still get a cup of flavored Joe from.  This was disconcerting, but I had my regular stops and their cutoff times down, so I was okay. Then it happened. I walked in at five minutes prior to cutoff, and was denied my coffee. They wouldn’t brew any more. I had rushed to get there after yoga, and was met with a flat denial. No apology, or “what can I do to make this better for you?” Nothing.

I left the store and promptly called to file a complaint. I was told this shouldn’t have happened and that every store was now under direct orders to brew more of it, even up until closing hours upon request.

I was told I’d receive a call from the district manager. It never happened.

I was told I could go in and physically request they brew some at any time. I tested this once, and it worked. Again, you would think that all was not lost here, right? Wrong.

I went back once more and was confronted by a flat, rude response of “No. We do not have to make you any. They don’t require it of us.” This, from the manager of the store.

I determined this coffee company had lost the privilege of my input. I no longer cast my pearls before swine, as the saying goes. And I’m loving Starbucks now more than I’d ever imagined. Who would have thought?

You and your business? You know I’ll be a loyal customer… just be sure to keep up the good work!

Love you people!!!! Mmmmppphhhuuuhhh!!!!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

aka Lisa Jey Davis

Editor in [Mis]Chief

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Nanny Nanny Boo Boo

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Yes… This is the Daily Mischief today. Nanny Nanny Boo Boo.

So, M.C. Nugget caught a GIGANTIC cockroach tonight by trapping it in the darkened dome of the bathroom plunger. I thought that was funny, and a little bit scary.

“Those creeps can slime and squeeze their way out of anything.”

He peered closer to observe his trap”Well, he’s not going anywhere right now.”

“Yeah! You better believe it!” I retorted, doing a tough-girl victory strut. “Cuz…” and I launched into my best rendition of “Nanny nanny boo boo!”

That pretty much ended our conversational symmetry.

M.C. looked at me and said, “What the heck is that? Nanny NANNY BOO? BOO?” laughing.

I was a bit shocked and thought initially he was joking, but no. He really didn’t know the phrase.

“Well no, I haven’t ever heard of it” he defended. “I was raised in the cradle of our nation, in the much more formal East coast, for god sakes! I’ve only heard of Honey Boo Boo.”

God help us.

I proceeded to pull it up on the internet so I could give him the full etymology of the phrase. It supposedly originated as “Nanny Nanny Boo Boo, Stick Your Head in Doo Doo” (though my mother, the proper woman that she was, didn’t allow me to say the last part) and was sung to a British song “Bye Bye Baby Bunting,” which was also not a very nice song to sing to someone in Great Britain, according to the website.

M.C. looked upon my face to try to understand the deeper meaning of what I was saying. After careful consideration he said, “Why do all of the weird things come out after five years?”

And yes, I replied in my taunting sing-songy way, “Nanny nanny boo boo!”

tongue

Your tax dollars hard at work

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People who work for the government are a special breed. And I do not mean that in the CIA-FBI work for the government sense. I’m talking about the people you encounter at the Department of Motor Vehicles and other government offices, where you’re subjected to the greatest example of how NOT to operate a business (best case scenario), or downright incompetence and rude behavior. Granted not every government employee makes you want to put them in a choke hold or a half nelson. Translation: they aren’t all lazy, burnt out, doped up slugs sitting behind a desk with a giant stapler waiting for their next break, and taking it just as you walk up to the counter. But I think it’s safe to say we’ve all been there.

Makes me spitting mad to think my tax dollars are paying those people.

Well today, M.C. and I experienced a unique kind of frustration from the most surprising of places – the guys out sweating, digging and paving a stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere just east of Needles, California.

These guys were paving less than a quarter mile of one lane, which closed that lane down for three miles. That would have been fine, but you’d think they were constructing an entirely new highway. There was no one directing traffic, and they were making k-turns, backing up against traffic (sometimes encroaching on our only free lane) in their big paving equipment and other contraptions! It was pandemonium! No. It was an episode of Laurel and Hardy (look it up if you don’t know what that is…).

This added an extra hour to our drive to New Mexico, all if which was spent not moving and watching these unorganized guys try to figure out how to do their job.

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AHHHHH….. That’s your tax dollars at work!