Dance the night away!

special announcement: sarah and tommy are engaged!

This past Saturday, I met an amazing woman...her name is Katie Holmes, but I call her "Kate." We have a fantastic connection, she is absolutely wonderful, and I've never met a more fabulous person in the whole world. I am craaaazzzyyy in love with Kate, and will pump my fist on the floor for you to believe it.

But Kate and I ran into a bit of a scuffle this weekend at the national headquarters of Scientology in Sarasota, FL [editor's note: really Argon National Laboratory in Darien; google me or Tommy in governmental websites and we'll probably come up as "serious threats to national security" after being involved in a "breach of protocol" i.e. drunken sneak-in with me under a purple sleeping bag in the trunk of the Dangermobile]...see, I was trying to get Kate to convert to Scientology. And why shouldn't I? I planned all along to propose to her, and Scientology is the greatest religion on the face of the earth [editor's note: I wanted to put "religion" in quotes since it was essentially ("essentially") invented by L. Ron Hubbard] but I can't at this point in my life [seriously past-his-prime A-list homosexual actor needing a publicity jump for his summer blockbuster movie] marry a woman who doesn't share in my spiritual beliefs. On the private jet plane into Sarasota (John Travolta let us dock our plane near his mansion in Sarasota--shot out to my fellow Scientologists, Travolta and Kirstie Alley!), I had Kate read over some selections from the Scientology handbook so she would more conducive to conversion as I watched over her while standing atop my leather plane seat--that's right, I no longer sit on furniture meant to be sit on; I stand, and occasionally jump on it. [I found this in Radar magazine today in my psychiatrist's waiting room and here is the writer's intro: "Ridding yourself of trapped Body Thetans--those pesky evil spirits from your past lives--is never an easy process. The procedure, developed by Church of Scientology found L. Ron Hubbar, requires disciples to answer 343 questions while hooked up to an E-meter (essentially a tricked-out polygraph machine). Below, a sampling of those questions from an internal church document labeled "HCO WW Sec Form 4":]
Have you ever enslaved a population? Have you ever made love to a dead body?
Have you ever debased a nation's currency? Have you ever engaged in piracy?
Have you ever killed the wrong person? Have you ever been a pimp?
Have you ever torn out someone's tongue? Have you ever eaten a human body?
Have you ever been a professional critic? Have you ever disfigured a beautiful thing?
Have you ever wiped out a family? Have you ever been a professional executor?
Have you ever tried to give sanity a bad name? Have you given robots a bad name?
Have you consistently practiced sex in some Have you ever set up a booby trap?
unnatural fashion? Have you ever failed to rescue your leader?
Have you ever made a planet, or nation,
radioactive?

Okay, it's me Sarah again. I can't pretend to be Tom Cruise anymore, even after Tommy and I agreed to take the blog world by storm and I would be TC (since I have been pretty kooky lately and talking lots of crazy--no couch jumping or Oprah attacks, but I've been close a few times) and he would be my meek, wide-eyed young girlfriend, KH. But really, I can't believe people believe in this "religion." I've never made a planet or nation radioactive, but I definitely have made booby traps ("Booby traps?" "That's what I said, setting booby traps in case anyone, like the Fertellis, are following us!") and I guess practiced sex in some unnatural fashion, whatever that means. Those Scientologists are wacky. I'm glad I'm out of Florida; I bet Sarasota is having an influx of paparazzi around the headquarters. Oh, speaking of paparazzi, I have to transcribe this story, also from Radar magazine, but it's about Kevin Federline and that's pretty much all I need for entertainment purposes: "During a recent shoot by snapper Steven Klein for the April cover of Italian high-style bible L'Uomo Vogue, Kevin Federline entertained crew members by throwing back rum and Cokes at noon--the only available salve for an obvious hangover--and griping about the drawbacks of his unearned fame. What really gets K-Fed's cornrows in a kink? 'The fuckin pazzarati.' 'The what?' asked our befuddled spy. 'You know, the fuckin pazzarati,' K-Fed clarified. 'They won't leave us alone.' Realizing Federline was referring to the paparazzi who chronicle the couple's every late-night Funyans run, staffers gleefully prodded him to continue his malapropist mewling for the remainder of the shoot." Ha ha ha...I especially liked the Funyans part...reminds me of when a certain pop star went to a gas station bathroom barefoot and grabbed her husband's crotch on a hotel room balcony for all the "pazzarati" to see.

So, Kate, I had a blast nearly getting arrested at Argon and preferring to philosophically muse on Who Moved My Cheese? symbology over sleeping or sobering up. Plus, you got to experience the female version of a danger ride, just not in Dangermobile, in Rog's Honda with the dog cover over the leather interior. And the Mulligan smell embedded inside. Gross. Even I think her smell crosses the line sometimes.

Tonight, I had book group and I know I was whining about it before but I forget how much I really enjoy everyone in my book group. Only one of the sisters was there, Grace, and at one point, she was discussing the slutty character in One Hundred Years of Solitude (can't tell you the name--maybe Ermanda?--because I never got around to opening the book, or even looking at the cover) and she said, "She was beastly! And that's an afront to beasts!" Direct quote. She's pretty funny. And then later, Bridgey (Kathy, Meg, and Sheila's neice, who lives in Houston with her family) came over to girl talk with us and she is basically me when I was 8. Same summer tan, same Kathy-braided-hairstyle, same hamminess. I think we're going to do the Finding Nemo slip n' slide together this week...if not that, then definitely sprinkler or a visit to the LFC (sorry, La Grange Field Club, the pool I used to belong to and swim on swim team for in the summers). I went to Katie's for a meet-up with the girlfriends (Kate, Tino, Maura, and Will; later Zach stopped by on his way back from Minnesota since their house is right off the tollroad on Ogden); they were already playing a pretty delicious round of Scrabble so I had a glass of wine and....watched. It was a good game--they actually got words in nearly all four corners--but Will refused to take a picture since he's decided to ignore the Scrabbler blog and let it die away quietly. So if you're out there and you love the Scrabbler, Katie is considering taking it over and turning it into a "kitty kat + Scrabble" blog. I think we should all rally for Katie to get a blog anyways. Or at least force Will to save it.

Okay, I promised Zach two days ago I would find us White Stripes tix so I HAVE to do that now...or it's never!

posted by SES @ 1:24 AM