Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood

My Zany Years Spent Working in Tinsel Town

Daily Mischief

For those times when losing doesn’t suck

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I’ve learned that the most brilliant ideas and life’s funniest moments happen when you least expect it.

Also, I do not need alcohol to wax brilliant… or funny.

Imagine that.

That said, it’s officially NFL Season; the time of year when M.C. Nugget pays good money to join an NFL football pool. I’m not at all against this. In fact, I’m totally FOR winning. It’s the losing part that bites.

So, when Nuggie and I went out to our neighborhood bar for some football action, we had every intention to enjoy the slaughter of the Denver Broncos by the Baltimore Ravens (the reigning Superbowl champions), even though the game was played in Denver. Our intentions were due to the fact that Nuggie did not “pick” the Broncos who were favored by seven points. It would have been OKAY if the Ravens lost… they just couldn’t allow the Broncos to win by more than seven.

BUT WAIT!

 

Mystery Science Theatre

 

There is a point to this that has nothing to do with football.  If you aren’t a football fan, it’s okay. I’ll break it down for you. The Ravens lost. Like the WORST loss any team can almost EVER, in a gajillion years, lose by. This didn’t bode well for our NFL watching experience. It certainly didn’t stroke our spiritual egos either, since we sent every kind of positive intention and telepathic mojo out to the Ravens to stop dropping the ball, to crush the Broncos who had the ball, and to actually SCORE points.

As a result Nuggie, our friend Bogey and I were given to sheer utter silliness. We joked, made faces, even reenacted the especially funny parts more than once. This aided in turning the evening into an overall pleasant experience… a miracle, people, trust me.

But then I had the brilliant idea: Remember Mystery Science Theatre 3000? We’ll do that for football and call it The REAL NFL BS. All we need is a camera crew so people can see and hear everything first hand and experience the brilliance. Funny how a camera crew always seems to be required when we’re at a bar. Huh… At least we can’t blame the alcohol this time.

But you see? Losing doesn’t always suck.

 

 

This calls for a tiny weapon

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Yesterday I mentioned how I often call M.C. Nugget “the boss of me,” and it’s quite true. It is his official title.

And with every boss title, comes the title for their subordinates.

In rapper lingo, that’d be BITCHES.

I’m not Nuggie’s bitch, although I’m not opposed to offering bitch services when it’s absolutely necessary. I’m a team player, for goddsakes. Plus, as Ashton Kutcher so aptly put it, “No job is too low.”

We were discussing this over cocktails at happy hour, and yes, it was the very same happy hour where we came up with the brilliant idea of what happens when God goes high-tech. It wasn’t pretty. But we are whacky with a chance of insanity. ALWAYS.

On this night, the conversation went something like this:

If I’m the boss, then I guess that makes you my assistant.

Sure, I’ll be your assistant.

I swatted a mosquito away, and cringed from a big black fly trying to buzz up my nose, with my arms flailing.

You can’t be my assistant if you’re constantly shooing bugs away!  We’ll have to get you an assistant.

I thought he redeemed himself, understanding my value enough to “grant” me my own assistant.

But your assistant will only handle bugs. She’ll be a bug handler. 

Yes!  I NEED a bug assistant!

Your bug assistant will kill all the bugs before they get to you, so you can tend to my needs.

Well… (thinking about this)…wouldn’t we have to give the assistant a tiny bug gun, then? I mean, if she’s going to kill the bugs, and we don’t want bug spray, or pesticides… I’m thinking a tiny bug gun would LOOK cool too. Then we could have her dress like a spy or something and call her The Exterminator.  Then when you and I are trying to – ahem – work, if the bugs start to BUG me, we’ll say “Bring in the Exterminator.” 

 

tiny_bug_gun

Bug assistant with a tiny bug gun. It’s on the list.

 

Image courtesy: http://emtoast.com/?p=873

Here’s what we’ll call ourselves

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Hey, do you remember the time I told you how my rote memory was going, and I almost went to the bathroom while my sexy undies were still on? Lord knows you should. It was only yesterday. Hey, I don’t blame you if you don’t remember. You should know it’s a personal rule for me to always answer no first and correct myself later when asked these types of questions. It’s safer.

You wouldn’t be out of line to question what this has to do with the smokin’ hot image of Victoria & David Beckham here. You’re extremely clever. But I’ll give you my reason very soon. I promise.

Where were we?  My rote memory was shot…

But I have to apologize before continuing because I withheld an important piece of information from you when I relayed that story. So there was that thing… the almost tinkling in a perfectly lovely pair of undies thing. And then there was this: A little while later I showed up A DAY EARLY to my prospective literary agent’s backyard barbecue.

The list of things which ruffle my feathers may elude you, because I don’t always share what really gets my goat (crosses fingers behind back). But watch me schlep my primped, made up, dressed up and fussed over bohiney into the “city” (because more than a mile east of the beach is the city) for an affair that requires I wear anything other than my pajamas or my workout clothes, A DAY EARLY, and suddenly I’m doing a BIG REVEAL:

FEATHERS SUFFICIENTLY RUFFLED.

Even worse is the fact that I couldn’t proclaim as I’d always envisioned in moments like this “Heads Will Roll.” These proclamations are no good to ones self. And my head rolling around is not on the other list. You know, the bucket list. So, that was out.

Nuggie and I looked fabulous too, all summery and coiffed, bearing one of my famously beautiful salads.

Fab Salad

When my agent’s husband answered the door with, “You’re a day early,” I thought he had a very dry sense of humor.

I was wrong.

So, we laughed and joked, and I amazed myself with just how GREAT I am at throwing out statements to make everyone else feel better in an awkward moment. I rattled off with turrets-like finesse something like “Thank GOD we had the wrong day. We weren’t going to be able to stay long because of three other parties we have to go to!”

I’d like to stop here to remind you of an important thing:  When I die, if you come to my funeral, you can now stand up and say “She was an incredibly talented liar, but she used her talents for good.”

My agent (and I call her that, because you know, mind over matter) was very kind and said we looked so fabulous, and even asked us to wear the same thing the next day.

When we showed up in pretty much the same clothes the next day, we were having a ball meeting an entirely different group of people…

But then it happened.

Not one or two, but three separate people asked basically the same question about Nuggie and I.

It went something like this:

Are you two married?

Oh no, we’re not…

Ahhh… Are you together? How long have you been together?

Five years… We live together.

So, what are you to each other?

  – OR – What do you call yourselves?

We’re dating

 – OR – We’re boyfriend and girlfriend

To which came a reply something like this: 

Dahhhhling, if you live together you are no longer “dating” are you?

   – OR – Boyfriend and girlfriend is for children, isn’t it?  

 

So the polite versions of Nuggie and I (as opposed to the fun-loving, sarcastic, tipsy versions we prefer in these instances) obliged our new friends with talk of terminology:  life-partners, domestic partners, the “ers” of the day.

I feel like we missed an opportunity.

We were at this party for the SECOND time and we couldn’t come back with something clever.

Next time, I’m going to open up the vaults and tell them what I should have said all along:  “We’re LOVE SLAVES….

CO-love slaves.”

(THIS IS WHERE I tell you the reason for using the sexy photo of Victoria and David Beckham above)

And that’s not too far from the truth. Ask Nuggie how often I call him “the boss of me.” He accepts the position with pride.

 

 

 

When this goes it’s all over

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Yesterday I went into the bathroom and almost peed through my cute little undies.  This was not a move of desperation, like oh my god, I gotta go so bad, I’m gonna’ pee my pants. No, I simply forgot to drop my drawers.

Thank god I realized what was happening before I embarrassed myself, but this thing got me thinking.

First, I thought Damn hormones… so this is what it means when it says hormone replacement therapy can cause dementia? That’s it. I’m going off hormones, even if it means I’ll be a shriveled up old lady before I’m fifty. 

But wait, there’s more. Though most times it’s the lack of hormones that causes weigh gain in women, hormones are also partly to blame for fighting my every effort to stay fit, lean and GOH-JUSS. Stupid, bi-polar hormones. And when I say fight, I mean they fight me like a bulldog that has a hold of a chunk of steak. You gotta surgically remove the steak from that dog’s mouth.

Like that.

And yes, pun intended. I have seriously considered lipo.

So, BONUS. Without hormones, I’d be a skinny, shriveled prune before I’m fifty.

As I pondered what was (or wasn’t) going on in my mind when I almost peed my panties, I had an epiphany.

There are a boatload of stories that have been played out in movies, on television and in books of elderly people who forget where they are or can’t find their way home. These are the stories of people with dementia, and I thought, IT’S JUST LIKE THAT. 

Going to the bathroom is something so familiar we don’t have to “think” about it. It comes by ROTE, as does driving home, remembering our phone number or ATM pin.

 

I said to Nuggie “You know I’ve enjoyed our time together. So as long as you don’t mind when I become a skinny wrinkly mess, we’re good. Because when my ROTE goes, it’s all over.”

I was pretty damn proud of my discovery too. GOD I am good. I wonder if neuro or geriatric surgeons realize this? I know they talk about short term memory loss, but have they really analyzed this shit? Have they factored in the ROTE?

What about the ROTE FACTOR?

ROTE you guys! I can’t live without that at such a young age!

Then I realized how utterly Lucille Ball-esque this situation was. So what if I sat down on the toilet and almost peed through my lacey thong? It’s not the first time I’ve done something and reminded myself of the brilliant redheaded comedienne in the sky (minus the brilliant and of course, the sky part). She would totally be all over this piece of work if she were still living today. Maybe not the peeing part, but the FUNNY, people. The funny.

So I decided to give this hormone replacement therapy thing a while to find its sea legs. But I won’t let it go on forever, that’s for damn sure. Because you guys, if I go out of the house naked one day, you’ll be responsible for taking care of me.

You’re good with that, right?

alzheimers

 

 

 

The difference between humans and chimps

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When a man like M.C. Nugget gives a gal the key to his apartment (not to mention, allows her to move in a year later), it is a momentous occasion worth submission to Ripley’s Believe it or Not.

I admit (and so would he), Nuggie had never met anyone like me before. He was caught unaware… more like shocked into sharing. His little black book didn’t know what hit it.

So imagine my surprise the other day when while out for a snack he said “Wait… look at me. Smile?” 

I said, “What? Do I have something green in my tooth?”

“No… (reaching over the table) a piece of pepper.”

AND THEN HE SCRAPED THE PEPPER FROM MY TOOTH. 

I was a little shocked and secretly flattered, but I couldn’t resist asking with a chuckle “So, are you grooming me now?  Are you gonna’ eat it too?” 

“Yes,” he joked. “Me and the chimps baby! We’re not that different!

The difference is that I have dipping sauce!“

 I laughed, “What do you mean? Like hot sauce?”

“Nope… Chocolate.  That’s right baby. The difference between humans and chimps? DIPPING SAUCE.”

Chimps

Yes, I live with this ball of non-stop humor AND I have a key. Get in line people.

 

 

When God goes hi-tech

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Yesterday Nuggie and I went out for happy hour. At the beach. On foot.

This is always a situation where we should hire a camera crew to follow us around. I would instruct them ahead of time to strap microphones to us and record EVERY SINGLE word, even when we are not in their view. Lord knows what comedic treasures could come from Nuggie or I talking to ourselves in the bathroom.

As the somewhat sober one of the two, I was talking to a tipsy Nuggie about a friend from a lifetime ago, who is married to a Pastor from my hometown.

You met her! She came to Maven’s funeral. Remember?

   Oh yeah… Was she there by herself, or did I meet her husband too?

No, she was by herself.

   Well, are they still married?

Oh yes… they have been married probably forty or so years!

   Why wasn’t her husband with her? That’s kind of lame…. send your wife to a funeral by herself…

He’s a pastor of a church of like 20,000 or something! He can’t go to every funeral… 

   Wait a minute… the guy’s a PASTOR and he’s not going to go to a funeral with his wife? That doesn’t make SENSE! 

Here is where I gave a laundry list of excuses in defense of my former friend’s life choices, and why it was okay for her to attend a funeral on her own.

She came to support me and my family, I guess… Plus her husband probably was teaching a sermon that evening and couldn’t come. PLUS, even if he could, you have to understand, with such a huge church people are dying and getting married daily… He can really only physically go to the funerals of people he actually knows, I guess.

   He knows you, doesn’t he?

That was years ago. We aren’t friends any more.

 

I should have said, She is an adult, isn’t she? She can decide to go or not on her own, right? But no, I wasn’t clear headed enough to state the obvious. I also got Nuggie’s point, because that is just the kind of guy he is. If I were attending a funeral, he would offer to go at whatever cost, and make it happen if at all possible. End of story. It’s why I love him.

 

But there is something you should also know about Nuggie in order to understand what happened next. He is an actor. He actually works as an actor in pursuit of his career. He’s not a waiter, trying to be a full-time actor. He really is an actor. You’ve probably seen him in something, but you would have to go to his IMDB profile to see his body of work. If you know him, you actually SHOULD go to every one of his films or television shows he has ever been in, find him in the cast, and click on him. Do this MULTIPLE TIMES. This influences his STAR METER.  The lower the star meter, the bigger a star you are.  Someone like Tom Cruise has a Star Meter of about 47, yet someone like Tom Hardy (Inception, The Dark Knight Rises) has a star meter of 11. 11 to someone for whom I had to provide a list of work he’s done. The reason that is the case is because his most recent Bat Man film got millions of hits on its page, and subsequently his profile. Star Meters are a squirrelly business. They go up and down with the wind. But a high Star Meter gets an actor “stuff” – entry into great events, swag bags, more work, you name it.

INTRODUCING THE ICDB

 

And Nuggie continued…

   They should have a Star Meter for that. If they did, that guy wouldn’t have a great star meter.

What do you mean? 

  Like IMDB. They should do that. They could have the I — (thinking for a second) C–D–B, Internet- (pause)- CHURCH – Database!

OH.MY.GOD. That’s funny! What? Would he be about a fifty?

  FIFTY! No WAY! 

Well he’d be up there, right?

  No. JESUS would be up there!

It sometimes takes me a minute to get what is really at play in the inner recesses of Nuggie’s mind, but I finally understood.

So what? God would be like number one? But then would he be listed as God, AKA Allah? Because you’d have to have them both right! Yeah – that’s good. God a.k.a. Allah. That would be funny.

God-At-His-Computer

  GHANDI – HE’D be at FIFTY.

What do you think Jesus would be? A three? Then you’d have to have Satan – because he’s a player too, you know. He’d probably be like, number five, sadly. 

 

THIS my friends — when God (Jesus, the devil and every other spiritual persona) goes high-tech —  was after I had just ONE cocktail.

I’m not sure why, but you’re welcome.