Matt Sorum TV

So my man is in LA recording some songs with Matt Sorum producing. The band has been having a great time and Matt has been incredibly cool and generous to them. They’re really happy with the sounds and Drew’s been enjoying working with such a talented drummer as a producer.

There’s a little clip of him and his guitar player Jamie Biden on Matt tv, and some photos of them in the studio. I’m psyched for them, can’t wait to hear it, and want him to come home like, yesterday.

The link is here if you’re interested: MATT SORUM TV

Jesus and Mary

Me: Did you enjoy not picking up? Was that fun? Did you look at the phone and giggle? Were you so busy discussing your extensive knowledge of macabre fiction with a fascinated underaged groupie that you couldn’t pick it up?

Drew: God you’re angry. You need anger management.

Me: More like boyfriend management.

Drew: You bring anger to new heights. You enjoy it. You’re an anger enthusiast.

Me: You make it so easy.

Drew: You’re professionally angry. You need it to focus. Without rage you get all confused. You know what I’m going to do? I’m gonna make a lot of money so I can start telling you to shut the fuck up.

Me: You tell me to shut the fuck up all the time!

Drew: But you don’t do it. Your big fat mouth is constantly open and I don’t have any power to shut it. I’m going to make a ton of money and I’ll have all the power. You’ll have to do what I say or get out. I’ll kick your angry ass right out of the pool, Mary.

Me: Yeah, that’ll work. You think you’ll have it together enough by then to be able to set your phone so it rings properly and you can answer it once in a while?

Drew: Sigh…I am nailed to the cross. No one knows how much I suffer.

Me: Yes, you’re just like Jesus.

Drew: I am.

Me: Only with more tattoos.

Drew: And less power. Dammit, I hate my stupid life and my stupid mean girlfriend.

Me: I know. I’m so sorry, Honey. Life is pain.

For You Lovey

So my sister is still reeling from the whole Rock of Love debacle. Yes, there, I’ve said it, debacle. I know all my middle-aged female peers are crowing in delight that 37 (ahem!) year old Am-bray won the heart and tongue of our favorite puffy, aging, balding rock star, but I continue to maintain that you could dip that one in chocolate and peanut butter and she’d still be as appealing as a pair of green crocs. Unless, you know, you need someone to drive the mini-van to soccer practice. Then Ambre’s your girl. Daisy’s boobs would just get in the way.

And Lisa agrees. We rarely disagree on the really important matters and are still weirdly obsessing over all things Daisy. So she called me today and asked me to blog a fitting tribute to our girl.

Unfortunately it’s late and I want to brush my teeth and go to bed, so I’ll just leave you with a classy photo. No real need to comment on this one, just had to give my poor devastated sister some closure. It’s been a rough couple of days, people, but we’ll find our way through this trying time. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Christmas Crotch

So this morning I had one of those mornings. I woke up groggy and late with one cat standing on my back and sneezing into my face while another one licked my hand raw in a thinly veiled ploy to get breakfast. When I got to the mirror there were pillow lines indented into my face. The apartment was freezing. I dropped the bottom half of my robe into the toilet when I turned on the shower.

Once I got makeup on I realized I’d completely over-applied to pink clown-like effect with nice heavy eyebrows. My hair refused to cooperate and when I pulled it back in a ponytail it only accentuated the makeup mania. I chose an outfit that seemed reasonable, but once I got it all on I realized the only clean tights I had were too busy looking with the sweater I’d chosen. I found another sweater, which then made the skirt look weird. I changed the skirt and now the top underneath the sweater didn’t work. I went back to the original outfit but now everything was covered in cat hair. And I was late…again.

I gave up on choosing the perfect ensemble, threw on some shoes and started in on the coats. I needed something to take me to work but because I intended to go to the gym afterwards, it had to be casual enough not to look ridiculous with sneakers. Plus it’s weirdly warm/cold out so it couldn’t be too light or too heavy.

The first jacket was too tight around the sweater I’d chosen. The second one was too light. Third one too dressy. I put on a long leather jacket, too tight in the sleeves again. I put on another long leather coat and a button popped off. I tossed them all on the bed in a frantic rush and one of the cats immediately snuggled happily, spreading hair everywhere. I finally opted for a too dressy wool coat, also covered in cat hair but loose enough in the sleeves to accommodate my mediocre outfit. I meticulously rolled the shit out of the coat with a pet hair roller, buttoned it up, grabbed my heavy bags and ran, cursing.

Once I got onto the street I realized the coat was way too heavy and I was already sweating. I pulled off my scarf and hitched up my heavy gym bag and heard the shoulder rip in the back. And the sunlight showed clearly that the fucking thing was still covered in cat hair. As an added bonus I’d buckled my shoes too tightly and they had a death grip on my ankles.


Trudge, grumble, trudge. One block into it I got stuck behind a day care outing featuring around twenty 3-4 year-olds holding hands and teedling along the sidewalk. I could not get around them to save my life. But I was broken by this point, already late for work, and they were actually pretty cute. So I gave in an just followed patiently.

One little girl on the end with short dark hair, wearing a floral, layered holly hobby outfit featuring white tights, kept stopping and pulling at her legs. I knew immediately what the problem was—that bane of my childhood existence, that torture of baby girls, that evil thing my co-worker JULIE calls “Christmas crotch”. Christmas Crotch is when your tights bag down below your crotch and make all movement uncomfortable.

This phenomenon is incredibly annoying but easily remedied when you’re an adult. You just head to a bathroom, hitch your skirt up and pull up the legs of the tights. But when you’re a four year-old girl it’s absolutely impossible to facilitate; your tiny fingers aren’t dexterous enough and you don’t fully understand what’s happening anyway. You just know you feel like hell. So you keep clutching at the waistband and kicking your legs out in vain attempts to get free of the Christmas crotch clutch. I remember this torture vividly and with great loathing.

This poor little girl would stop, pick at her knee, then lurch back into formation as the boy holding her hand yanked her forward. Two seconds later she’d stop again to scrabble at her waist, only to get pulled again, stumbling. It was heart-rending.

And then the woman at the head of the formation said, “Raphaela! Try to keep up! And Jamie be careful, don’t drag her!”

I’m taking it as some weird sign from the Universe. I’m not sure exactly what it’s trying to tell me, but I do know I felt less crabby about getting to work because I’d just passed my equally disheveled and suffering baby doppelganger. I only hope one of the helpers takes mercy on her before the day is done and gets those tights up where they belong so she doesn’t end up scarred for life and completely bitter like her elder version.

Because we all know how that turns out.

Could Not Have Said It Better Myself

From my sister:

Sadly Rock of Love 2 concludes this sunday evening. I will be there to watch Daisy receive her crown, as we all know at 37 Ambre is much too old. I hope the evening of sex goes well for the two lovebirds and that the headband stays on. Nobody wants brains spilling out on the bed. ok.”

I spent two drunken hours on Wednesday night arguing the finer points of this delightful show with BROOKE, who is pro-Ambre (yes, that’s right–the R goes before the E), while I, along with my sister, am pro-Daisy. Last week’s episode was an absolute delight: Bret donned a lace-front wig to prove to all of us that there is indeed hair (even if it had to be purchased) under the headband; we learned that Destiney (with an extra E for Excellent!) chose to vie for Bret’s affection on a reality television show rather than spend some time with her dying father, who was given six months to live and has since passed away; we watched Bret force the parents to watch a lengthy Poison dvd while Destiney flipped her hair and did a crazy and mortifying whore dance around the room; we cried as Ambre admitted that she is totally head over heels in love with Bret but that she lied about her age for “business” purposes; and we shook with nervous fear as Bret continued to grill poor Daisy about her home life with her closet-case ex-bf Charles.

I am madly in love with Daisy Duck. I can’t get enough of her. The ridiculous fake lips, the giant fake boobs, the perfect little waist, the way she weirdly holds her hands in front of her face when she cries, her tiny spinning hamster brain. She’s an absolute delight. And Bret thinks so too, I have to cover my eyes in shame when he gets all sexy around her, which is often. But Brooke thinks that Ambre’s better for him because she’s intelligent and closer to his age. Ha! As if those are even considerations. Although I will admit that Ambre has been pulling some diabolically Machiavellian moves the last couple episodes, which have kept Daisy extremely confused and Ambre close in the running.

And can we talk about Bret’s fashion for a moment? That super stiff garanimal matching Ed Hardy leather jacket and cowboy hat he wore last week made my heart sing. Almost as much as the full length cow print duster from last season. Oh Bret, you are the king of cheese, thank you so much for such quality entertainment. I’ll see you on Sunday night, hot stuff.

Baby Poem

I’m currently having major computer problems and my beloved MIKE is going to have to clean the whole thing off and reload it again. So I’m moving all of my documents, of which there are many, to Google docs. It’s annoying and tedious, but I am finding all kinds of forgotten nonsense like this…ahem…gem.

I may have already blogged it, I can’t remember anymore. I wrote it for my sister when she needed something to read at her son’s playgroup. Unfortunately she did not deem it appropriate for Michigan mommies and it has languished unsung ever since.

The party is over, the good times are done
It’s the end of all laughter, cause now you’re a mom.
Can’t buy new shoes, cause babies need food.
Can’t talk on the phone, cause babies are rude.

Can’t go backstage, cause babies aren’t cool.
Why not a puppy? So much less drool.
Don’t look in the mirror, your butt probably looks bad.
Babies only work for the ego of dad.

Yes now you’re a mom, like Madonna or Cher.
But no nannies, or lypo, or gorgeous fake hair.
It’s really quite horrid, but to show I still care,
Here’s a poem for your playgroup, with love, from Aunt Mare.

Why Do They Always Look Like Unhappy Rabbits?

Rose McGowan is an idiot. She was great in Grindhouse, but do we have to hear her offstage opinions? Tonight she’s hosting Turner Classic Movies (the channel on constant rotation at Chez Raff), and just gave the worst introduction to one of my favorite movies ever– All About Eve. Her thinly masked hatred of this wonderful film was so insulting that I feel I must post a clip immediately in order to counteract televised stupidity..
And yes, LOVEY, I realize there is a great personality resemblance between Ms. Margo Channing and myself. Perhaps that’s why I love her so.

Okay, on my way out for a cocktail celebration of LIZZIE’S birthday, maybe we should have martinis in Margo’s honor! Bite me, Rose!

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