Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood

My Zany Years Spent Working in Tinsel Town

party

When did we forget how to do this?

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WHEN DID WE FORGET HOW TO DO THIS?

 

#DailyMischief

 

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M.C. Nugget and I went on a little getaway over Halloween weekend. We were invited to a big party in Downtown LA, and though we never venture into downtown or anywhere east of Lincoln Blvd, for that matter, a former client owns a hotel there and gave us a great deal, yada, yada, yada… yeah, yeah, yeah… We all know how this story goes.

We went to that party on Friday night, the blessed cacophony of mayhem and mischief that it was. But if you can imagine being in the center of a huge warehouse full of people in ornate, colorful costumes, dancing to bass-thumping music… Then picture yourself twirling around so fast that you see only a blaze of color and wind; Or think about if you were to enter a 3D black light art installation, were handed 3D glasses by the people at Altervision, and all you could see were bright, loud, neon colors in the wind.

MsCheevious_Nuggie_Halloween_2014

Not sure how we don’t look blue there, because every other photo made us look like the blueberry girl from Willie Wonka.

Blacklight Art Installation

THERE IS ONE OF THEM.. a blueberry girl, otherwise known as Tinker Bell from Altervision.

 

If you’ve come this far with me, imagine on the next evening, entering an ancient Electrical Plant-turned speakeasy from the 1920’s, with burlesque shows and fifteen dollar beers. If you can imagine all of that, then you know that THIS IS HOW THESE STORIES GO.

But how does the story end?

How this story ends, is, well a little disappointing, because somewhere along the line, Nuggie and I forgot how to do this shit (or maybe it’s just that I forgot). Somehow the metrics have completely escaped me for how to bring all of the pieces of this story together so it ends with us lying in a bed of posies, butterflies fluttering and beautiful music lulling us into a peaceful sleep at the end of a huge weekend. Instead, it ends with the zombiefied versions of me and Nuggie exiting our hotel room, sunglasses on, making a beeline to our comfortable, friendly neighborhood bar for brunch (and a little hair of the dog, in Nuggie’s case, because remember, I don’t get hangovers). And by little, I mean I made note of the number of cocktails I was having this time (this is number 4, okay, this is number 5), I lost count somewhere between number 5 and when I found myself back home at the beach palace, waking up to the sound of a blaring alarm clock telling me it was time to get up and teach the minions how to live and be healthy.

Yes, I woke up and put on my best healthy face, when really I just wanted to crawl back into bed.

It didn’t help that we “fell back” an hour on the clocks, which creates its own sort of jet lag for me.

Nuggie and I both have been sleeping ever since last weekend, and I have made a solemn vow to let the whirlwind, twirlie girls in their 20’s, 30’s and so on handle the whirlwind weekends from here on out. Stay tuned on that one, but just don’t hold your breath.

Because apparently we really did forget how to do this without getting sick or sleeping for three weeks afterward.

 

#MomFactor: These kinds of parties and activities work wonders for showing your kids you’ve not lost all sense of “cool” by becoming a mom. If you can do them without going too wild, you’re golden. 

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Blog content copyright 2014, LISA JEY DAVIS a.k.a. Ms.Cheevious.

It’s the alcohol, darling

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IT’S THE ALCOHOL, DARLING

#DailyMischief

 

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M.C. Nugget and I spent the night at my girlfriend Brit’s house after she threw me a wonderfully fantastic birthday dinner party. Brit and her fiancé recently moved up into the hills above Mulholland drive and have a gorgeous home with three large bedrooms (one of which is now “my” bedroom – thank you!), a beautiful swimming pool and back yard, and a view of the valley below that could make you sing  God Bless America.

I won’t go into the details of the party (which was a dinner party for four couples), because, well, it just can’t be properly recapped, but here are just a few highlights with a couple of photos below):

From the thai fusion food (prepared by her Cordon Bleu trained beau), Asian themed cocktails (including fresh lichee martinis – “you can only get fresh lichees one month a year” – yay for me!), the “Pink Martini” channel on Pandora, the impromptu dancing and Latin dance lessons that ensued afterward, all the way to my favorite birthday cake (yep, I had a huge slice), made THIS birthday an incredibly beautiful, memorable one. I was and am extremely blessed to have such a wonderful friend who is like a sister to me.

Nuggie and I planned to sleep over, knowing we wouldn’t be driving after the party. We passed out in her over-stuffed, poofy, comfy guest bed. I imagine I’ll spend many nights in that bed in the future, and I’ll dream about being a jet-setting billionaire-ess, famous author, wise sage or something.

Brit and I both rose at about 6AM. I did a little yoga on the patio (she had serene spa music playing softly on the outdoor speakers that basically SCREAMED at me “GET OUT HERE AND DO SOMETHING GOOD FOR YOUR BODY DRUNKY!”), and she began to clean up and regroup for the day ahead (which included the four of us lounging by the pool).

Then I pulled out my camera from the night before and Brit was amazed. She was so glad I’d documented the fabulous party. We chuckled, oohed and ahhh-d as we recalled various moments.

Then she laid this on me:

“What is it about life’s great moments that we can’t always remember them until we see the photos?” (you can ask this on twitter)

Now, I’m not often given these kinds of opportunities in my world…the perfect set up…. the kind that invites you to participate in the making of a quote for the annals of history (or for here on the blog at least),

I answered her immediately and compassionately… “… it’s the alcohol, darling.” (you can tweet that)

Hey, life’s great moments may get a little foggy for some when mixed with alcohol, but I remember it all (of course, I followed my own best advice – hydrate, hydrate, hydrate). And I wouldn’t change a thing.

The God Bless America View

The God Bless America View

 

It's The Alcohol, Darling

The photo that sums it all up. “It’s the alcohol, darling.”

 

Candles

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They were never supposed to seem so cool

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Last Wednesday night I took the red-eye to Houston for a long weekend with the Texas Contingent.  That’s the name for my family in Texas because after four days of big food, big wine and little sleep, it’s as ingenious as I can be. But let me clarify: My family is not from Texas. Some of them transplanted there and their families proceeded to grow. Kinda like a weed.

I hadn’t been out there for about fourteen or so years, when my youngest, Graden was about four — or so (funny how I am now sounding just like all of the other adults I knew growing up, who when asked to name a year for a specific event,  favorite song on the radio, or otherwise would ponder it and reply noncommittally with something like  “Oh… I don’t know. Maybe 30 years ago, or so.”). The reason for the trip was to PAR-TAY at PAH-TAY‘s house (look that one up – you’ll be glad you did). One of Pah-tay’s daughter’s (my niece) was turning forty (it’s a freak of nature thing… she’s actually OLDER.THAN.ME.SWEAR.TO.GOD.), and Pah-tay was throwing a party for her. She was also throwing a big baby shower for her youngest daughter (my niece) who was having her first baby. Big party in Big Texas.

And you guys, this is SEPTEMBER!

As many of you know, September is a big month for me already because it’s Ovarian Cancer month, and I do what I can to honor and pay homage to my beloved sister Maven (this year I am selling my cute little charm bracelets and have made them super affordable so everyone can wear one and show their support for the cause.)

Add to that the fact my sister Maven’s daughter would be there with gorgeous grandson #1 whom Maven met just days before passing, as well as grandson #2, whom my sissy never got to meet… it meant I was GOING.

If AT ALL POSSIBLE, I WAS GOING.

Maven had so looked forward to being a Nonna (grandmother in Italian), and it was only to be for a few days, so since her death, I’ve tried my best to be a surrogate Nonna to these boys (#2 even I hadn’t met)… I fail miserably most of the time, because I’m just not with them, nor have I been with any of Maven’s family for most of their lives. But hell. I can try.

So I went. I partied. I cuddled and posed for far too many photos with all of my relatives (want a picture of me? just pull out a camera… I’ll be right over)… and it was a BLAST!

And now that you know all ten gajillion excuses for my trip, HERE.

HERE IS WHAT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO SEEM SO COOL:

The sixties.

The Sixties

Yeah. Non sequitur.

We had a photo booth, with wigs and glasses and other wild accessories.

Do NOT put a pile of wigs and glasses and other wild accessories in front of me (camera or not) and expect me not to parade around assuming you do not know who I am in my fabulous disguise. I was totally unrecognizable.

It was a hipper than hip, cooler than cool reunion of the Sherwood Girls on another Caper: Pah-tay, me: Brat-tay (dead center, wig) and Ice-Tay.

We went all sixties, all night long.

Yeah. The sixties may have been wild, zany and all kind of angel dusted-colorful, but they were never supposed to seem so cool.

But here, today, wearing the sixties like there is no tomorrow…  we were cool. We were so cool. Peace.

 

 

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.