Ms.Cheevious

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 

1) I’ve never done a post where I number things.  Everyone else does it. My turn.

2) First and foremost – in the OTHER NEWS category (not to be confused with unimportant):  My boyfriend and I broke up a little over a couple of weeks ago. I suppose it was coming for a long time. Not surprised, are you?  As many of you know, I determined I could not live away from the city for the rest of my life, and my man is or was (as it were) a country boy.  He is very special and we remain friends as well as business partners, and care very much for each other, but in all fairness to him, I had to let go.  He wants and needs a hot outdoorsy chick who can remain by his side in small town America.  The jury is still out on whether it was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.  It was not something that my Barbie GPS  could help me with.  It was all about being true to oneself.  But, I’m sure you’ll hear more from me on this. Stay tuned.

3) On a lighter note: I met someone new that I like!  At first I told RandomEsq (the consummate alias creator) that this guy is British, but reminds me of Tab Hunter – sort of – and if you do not know who Tab Hunter is, I hate you. Random came up with the fantastic alias of Sir Tab, which is very appropriate, even though when I conducted an Internet search on Tab – an actor from the 60′s – there were only cutesy, Beach Blanket Bingo sorts of images.  Tab Hunter had the clean-cut look of one of the Beach Boys in their early days.  If you don’t know what “Beach Blanket Bingo” or who the Beach Boys are, you’d better look them up, because you are WAY out of it, baby.  Everyone should know about these monikers of pop culture. 

4) Once I saw the Tab Hunter images, I embarked on another search for who Sir Tab really reminds me of.  I figured it out: It’s Dennis Quaid.  Sort of.  Sir Tab is actually MUCH cuter – blows Dennis out of the water!  I suppose if Tab Hunter had ever grown his hair out, he may have even looked sort of Quaid-ish.  I considered changing the alias to Sir Quaid, but it sounded too much like QUAALUDE, so I decided against it.  Sir Tab is a hottie, with some incredible lips, I must say.

Here’s a shot of Tab Hunter – the hottie.  But this image is just a little too far off from Sir Tab. Sir Tab has some ruggedness to his looks.  Though it looks like Tab has some luscious lips here – so there are some definite correlations. heh heh

Here’s an idea of what Tab would’ve looked like with more hair. Well, maybe not (okay – I’m not Rembrandt).  He kinda sort of looks like a Chia Pet.  HA!  But, with longer hair, Sir Tab might actually be compared to him.  Ya think?

This better depicts Sir Tab – I think.  Not to say that he doesn’t have his own unique, wonderful look. But based on this, one could surmise that he’s cute, eh?

5) I still haven’t got even a tinge of desire to upload the video footage from my appearance on Entertainment Tonight.  It was an ABOUT FACE sort of thing, any way – if you know what I mean – laser treatment and all.  The footage I have is from an apparent shorter version than what was finally aired after its initial debute.  I hear the full-length version is better, and am waiting to see it.  Once I do, I will get around to uploading it some day, in which case I will include the video footage here for you as well! (SCARY)

So – Welcome to the very first LIST edition of Ms. Cheevious – Enjoying every moment.  If you are new here, welcome. I am so very glad you are here, and honored you chose to stop by. We have a FABULOUS time in here, dahhhhling!

And now, my friends, I am off!  There are soooo many people to do and things to see.  Strike that.  Reverse it. (Anyone remember where that line came from?? First person to recall is guaranteed to never have their personal stories appear in my blog. Hee hee.)

As always, have a fantastic weekend, and enjoy EVERY SINGLE MOMENT!

Love you people! Mmmmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!  xoxo
Ms. Cheevious

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

I’m in Vegas with my soon-to-be teenage son (does that make him still a tween, or just simply hormonal?), Graden.  If you are new to Ms. Cheevious – Enjoying Every Moment, welcome!  We have loads of fun in here.  I tell it like it is, based on how I see things, of course.  Anyhow, I change the names of my friends and family, whenever they get entangled in a predicament I feel compelled to share.  So, Graden is not really my son’s name, but it’s cool isn’t it?  My son’s pretty cool.  I must admit.  Both of them are.  Graden and Joel (another cool, also not-my-son sort of name).

As many of you know, Graden and I were in Aspen last week, where I got very sick and was laid up most of my visit.  I was there on business, and upon arrival soon found myself about the business of lying in bed trying to recuperate. 

When I planned the trip a couple of months back, I’d mentioned it in passing to Graden, thinking we’d be driving from Los Angeles to Colorado.  To sweeten the deal I said we’d probably stop in Vegas on the way there or back to break things up.  Graden is a cool twelve year old.  In “parent language” (in case you’ve not been blessed with little darling children) this means he doesn’t crack a smile or show any emotion.  At least not to me.  I’m his mom, dude. That wouldn’t be cool.  Hello???  So, when he half-way squeaked a quasi-exuberant huff, something to the effect of “Oh! Snap! That’s coooool,” I knew I’d better not re-neg on this one.  He went on to explain that the roller coaster at New York, New York was on his list of “must rides.”  I quickly realized that the little boy who, on a trip to Knott’s Berry Farm a couple years back, wouldn’t board anything that looked remotely fast or furious, was gone. Sniff, sniff.

You’ll get a laugh, (either that or be extremely bored) over our little excursion.  Our story is replete with after-midnight tales, and scurrying about the strip. But it’s not the usual story, as most trips we’ve all heard about that are chock full of juicy, sordid details of love lost (and found – well, a tainted version of it, anyway), money won (and lost). and all manner of legal and illegal substances consumed (or, ehem, “tossed” – as in “I tossed my cookies”), for better or for worse. 

So here we are!  We arrived at about 7 pm last night, got the rental car and checked into the hotel (NY NY).  It was 9 pm before we were able to head over to a little restaurant called Mon Ami Gabi in the Paris Las Vegas hotel.  It came highly recommended by a friend who frequents Vegas, who said “Sit outside on the patio.  You’ll love the view.” We did, and – we did!  Graden said, “Tell Thurston (another fictional name) I love him!”  THAT, my friends, was a very important clue.  For Graden to say that, I’d DEFINITELY broken through the hard, cold exterior of his coolness.  I was on the fast track to becoming the essence of cool in the eyes of my son, which, at the age of almost thirteen, is INCREDIBLE. 

Here I caught Graden in a “moment” where it wouldn’t be too bad to take a picture with mom.

Mon Ami Gabi’s patio sits directly opposite the Bellagio Hotel’s famous fountain, and every fifteen minutes, on the dot, we were treated to a beautifully choreographed fountain routine.  There were routines perfomed to songs by the likes of Celine Dion, Frank Sinatra, even Charro.  And those sexy legs!  Well, anyway.  It actually was very beautiful.  But the really fantastic thing about the restaurant was the food.  That was what prompted Graden to say that he LOVED my friend.  He drooled as he savored every bite of his filet mignon.  What twelve year old wouldn’t, I suppose!?

Here is basically the same photo, but this time, you can see the FOUNTAIN!!

But I must admit, as beautiful as the fountain was, it was what happened next that was really hilarious (or very sad, depending on your opinion, I guess). 

Okay – one more picture of the fountain, just for good measure:

We left the restaurant and ran as fast as we could back to the hotel to try and catch a ride on New York, New York’s roller coaster, the Manhattan Express (I’m not sure that’s still the name, but it works for me). 

Normal hemming and hawing, making excuses as to why the ride could wait until tomorrow, complaining about the traffic (pedestrian as well as auto), or any other stalling mechanism I could think of to enlist aside – I went on the ride.  I have to say, something interesting happened.  It was as if my inner teenager was awakened.  I had a BLAST on that roller coaster!  I would have run back to the front of the line again, were it not for our getting on board the last ride of the night. 

Graden and I got back to the room after midnight and pulled up whatever websites we could find to plan our coaster strategy for the next day.  We were up until TWO AM scheming our screams for the day ahead.  Silly me even thought I’d get up early and get a work out in.  Yeah right. 

We ended up riding the roller coaster at Circus Circus, the Sahara (pictured above, at the NASCAR cafe), and one other that escapes me now.  They were ALL fantastic.  We rode them multiple times.  By the time we got back to the hotel, I was in need of a massage.  I got one.  It was fabulous.  Graden used his free time to buy a Manhattan Express wrist band and ride the coaster at our hotel over and over again.

We are off to see “O” by Cirque du Soleil tonight, then it’s the Stratosphere coaster and swimming at Mandalay Bay tomorrow.  My, we are awfully hip, aren’t we?

I have to run now people.  Places to go, people (or at least characters in costumes and what-not) to see!

I hope your weekend brings you multiple smiles and something good to remember.

Mmmmmmphhhhuuuuhhhhh! 

xoxo, Ms. Cheevious

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

You know, when I first heard that saying “Shrimp on the Barbie,” it actually conjured up images of a Barbie Doll with a piece of shrimp on it.  I’m sure there are psychological implications to this, especially given my deviant nature at times, but suffice it to say, once I thought of that saying (don’t ask me how on earth I thought of “Shrimp on the Barbie” after lying in a bed of Kleenex, having sneezed and coughed for the past eighteen hours.  Perhaps it was a drug induced hallucination of Barbies and shrimp dancing around my brain, or maybe it’s just because I LOVE Barbie.  I think Mattel should create a Barbie GPS.  One that is pink and says things I can relate to, like “Time to stop and apply lip gloss!” or “No! Don’t go down there! You’ll get mud on your Jimmy Choos!” ), my mind went on a rabbit trail from there.  It took me to thoughts of my Memorial Day Weekend.  It was my first holiday weekend since moving into my new condo in Los Angeles. 

One of my best friends (the one who is an on-air personality on national television – the one I can’t mention here – ha ha) was in town from New York, and we planned a little soire at a mutual friend’s house.  Okay – not just any house – and not just any friend.  He’s pretty cute too (always a bonus) and a perfect host.  This friend’s house is up in the hills of Beverly Hills and has a panoramic view of Los Angeles from its pristinely landscaped back yard.  This view can be seen while sipping Pina Coladas in the hot tub, lounging near the pool, or from any point in the back yard.  Not only can you see a spectacular array of city lights on a clear night, but you can see some of the elaborate mansions on the rolling hills across the way.  As I scanned the breathtaking view on that night I couldn’t help but wonder what each of the members of these households were up to in that very moment.  Were celebrities afoot, hobnobbing and congratulating each other on their latest projects as they sampled the latest and greatest Wolfgang Puck fare?  Were they welcoming friends and family for a little shrimp on the barbie and some delicious daiquiris? 

Here is our host’s pad.  Very nice place. 
The photo, taken by our mutual friend, doesn’t do justice to the view, but you get the picture.

Or could it be that the most likely scene in this belly of affluence was that of a desolate housewife sitting alone in her bathrobe, smoking cigarettes on her balcony looking at the fantastic view her world has created for her, only to also create a husband whose hunger for status, success and an unhealthy appetite for celebrity leads him astray time and again with every next top model or actress – or even actor? 

I allowed my mind to go to this dark and very real place for some in Tinsel Town for only a moment, before it was so pleasantly interrupted by a delicious Malibu Rum and diet Coke offered by my adorable host.  ‘Ahh, Malibu’ I sighed with relief. Not only was I relishing in the rum, but thoughts of the beach, the ocean’s waves in all their majesty, and the burnt orange and fuchsia sunsets so beautifully crafted by the unique attributes of Southern California’s carbon footprint.  It may not be paradise to some, but I do love the landscape here, even with all the faults so many are quick to point out.

So, anyway.  I got to the party a little in the dark as to what we’d be cooking up.  My girlfriend said she had it covered, so I showed up in time to help get things going.  This friend of ours is a total bachelor.  It’s almost criminal for such a magnificent kitchen, complete with indoor grille and all the accoutrements for fabulous culinary creations, to belong to a bachelor who doesn’t even cook.  I tried not to drool as I prepped the lettuce and tomatoes for the burgers.  He is so much the stereotypical male bachelor, too.  Poor guy.  He told the story of how he’d been in the house for almost ten years, when his parents came for the holidays recently.  His mom went to cook a holiday dinner only to find the oven did not work.  “Please tell me you have used this oven before,” he mimicked his mother’s disdain over his pathetic bachelor state. Of course he hadn’t.  As a matter of fact, he even expected my friend and I to actually do the grilling for our little group.  This is where I stepped in.  I protested that idea vehemently.  I am a little traditional, in the sense of male and female roles.  Go figure.  Me, the jet-set, marketing and PR professional, who actually likes to be valued and cherished, and treated special!  As traditional as I am, I don’t go so far back to the golden olden days, that I am willing to carry buckets of water from the well, or worse yet, light the grille and flip the burgers.  In my book, that’s where the men take over.  Either that, or I stay inside and use the fancy indoor grille, which works just fine as well.    Once the guys took charge of the burgers on the outdoor grille, we were all set. 

So, do you think it’s outrageous that I am actually so old fashioned? Listen, I am all for being liberated, and we all know I’ve exercised that liberation on more than one occasion (in many fun and interesting ways!)  Even though I am strong and able, I LIKE a man to take over when things intimidate me, or seem bigger than me.  Or if I cry.  Ha ha.  I LOVE to defer to my man.  I suppose it could be construed as a bit of a double standard.  I want to be treated special, like a precious commodity.  I also want to do what makes me happy when I want.  But doesn’t everyone?  I want to be able to take off the Paris if I’m so inclined.  Of course, if I am with someone, I most certainly want them to come along, but I am not opposed to seeking adventure on my own once in a while, too.  The latter tends to intimidate, or infuriate men.  They can’t seem to wrap their mind around the concept that a strong independent, intelligent woman is deserving of being cherished, loved and treated like they (the men) are so lucky to be with them.  Is that so much to ask?  Like Sheryl Crow says, “Lie to me.  I promise I’ll believe.”  Just make me believe I am precious.  Dammit.  ha ha!  You know, growing up, my family called me Super Brat.  Then a little later a brother-in-law elevated the title to Wonder Brat.  It was a compliment.  I truly believe my family sat back with jaws on the floor at the way my life unfolded.  HA!

I’m really not a brat.  I just know what I want.  Right now, I’d like to be able to stop the coughing and sneezing.  I want to go for an exhilerating hike or bike ride.  I could even love the hot tub right about now.  But alas, I must get back to work!

So, I went from Shrimp on the Barbie (and all that implies) to the lifestyles of the rich and famous (or not), and then ended with an analysis of – ME (albeit distorted and just-as-drug-induced as my Barbie hallucinations.) How utterly apropos. 

I am in Aspen this week, and will be in Vegas for next week’s post.  THAT will be fun!  I received the footage from my underwhelming appearance on Entertainment Tonight, and still haven’t decided whether I will post it or not.  More later on that.  Perhaps next week I’ll chat about my escapades at Book Expo.  Or not. Regardless, it’ll be GOOD.

Have a great weekend everyone!

xoxo – or as an old boyfriend use to say “mmmmmphhhuuuhhhh!”
Ms. Cheevious 

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