Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood

My Zany Years Spent Working in Tinsel Town

Road Trip

Taking charge in the car

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I love how my son Graden’s mind works. He’s been brilliant and confident since birth.

We were driving through the desert near Paige Arizona when he was about two, and encountered an incredibly scary and dangerous thunder and lightening storm. You’d have to be acquainted with my ex… the person that he was oh, at least sixteen years ago, to understand why this became more of a “thing” than necessary. Let’s just say that driving fast or with unlimited access in any climate was prerequisite… and never questioned. He owned a four-by-four, gigantic mofo truck with a huge lift kit (the kind I needed a running start to get into), so he believed he was impervious to any climate or environment while driving.  Scale a vertical cliff in the truck? Yup. Drive 70 miles an hour in a monsoon, with zero visibility? You betch-ohhh ass, dad-gummit.

I tried to mask my fear for Graden’s sake, because the alternative was to go bat shit crazy in the car, and that wouldn’t do  anyone any good. I opted to keep my bat shit to myself. I wanted him to believe we were all very safe, and daddy knew what he was doing. NOT. But his peace was most important to me. I couldn’t do anything about the thunder and lightening show, and certainly couldn’t help that we appeared to be driving through the car wash from hell.

When the lightening and subsequent thunderous cracks in the sky drew ever so close, and deafened our ears, it was Graden who said something.

Graden: Mom?

Me:  Yeah honey?

Graden: Can you turn it off?

I knew instantly what he meant. Make the lightening and thunder stop. His dad and I exchanged knowing glances, his dad, finding this extremely amusing.

Me: Oh honey, no, I can’t turn it off.

Graden: Why?

Me: Because honey, only God can turn it off.

There was a pause for a minute, as Graden pondered this, no doubt envisioning a mean old God up in the sky looking down at us, on-off switch nearby, but was he doing anything? No. He was grinning with devious glee as he watched the little people down below cower in fear over his power.

Apparently Graden would have none of it.

Graden:  I’ll turn it off.

Me (sideways glancing at his dad): You will?

Graden: Yeah.

I laughed a bit, and was awed by this kid, sitting peacefully in his car seat, contemplating how he was going to take charge.

Me: Okay, honey. If you can turn it off, then you do that.

There was a long pause… while Graden thought about how and where to do this…

Graden: Where is it?

 

A little boy who's comfortable taking charge in the car

Ya gotta hand it to kids. They really do know what to say to make everything better.

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.