C (6:39)

Rula Tula Allah Rula. You guys know how I feel about mental health. I feel a lot about it. It's very important. You've heard me talk about Carol, my therapist with a disconjugate gaze, but I think it makes her assessments better. But let me tell you about Rula. Rula partners with over a hundred insurance plans, making the average copay just $15 per session. What $15 in anymore? Nonetheless, therapy. You get real therapy from licensed professionals at a price you can work with. And Rula isn't just affordable. The whole experience is tailored around you. Rula considers your goals, preferences and background to give you a curated list of in network therapists aligned with your needs. Thousands of people are already using Rula to get affordable, high quality therapy that's actually covered by Insurance. Visit rula.comgabby to get started. After you sign up, you'll be asked how you heard about them. Please support our show and let them know we sent you. That's r u l a.com Gabby, you deserve mental health care that works for you, not against your budget. It's February, the days are still dark.

D (7:57)

And you don't have a valentine. Plus, we're in a snowstorm.

B (7:59)

But don't get discouraged yet.

D (8:01)

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Whoa.

D (8:37)

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B (9:06)

And this this genital near a Dyson is only something a man would attempt due to his one brain cell occupied by the mysterious pendulum with swinging from the raptors of his Tweety Bird boxers riddled in skid marks because his mother got them for him in the eighth grade and he cannot wash them nor let them go because they are an omen of luck. But Eugene Levy, he encouraged Catherine o' Hara and put her on and laughed at her heartily, which this woman of statue deserves. They have incredible chemistry. They do. It's palpable. It's palpable, it's visceral and we can tell the fondness for each other that is ever present as they turn out the lamp in the Rosebud Motel. Moira in a vest she rests forever. RIP Catherine o' Hare Is it o'? Hare?

C (10:06)

O'?

B (10:06)

Hara? I think it's o'. Hara. You will never be forgotten.

C (10:12)

Let's say a prayer.

B (10:14)

May we all be more like Moira. May we all find our inners like Moira. May we channel Moira in our darkest nights onto something more scandalous, more dangerous, more risky. A Hollywood party. I went to my first the WMAG Grammys after party. So I prepare all day a cooling face mask all day sits on my face in just a mist of a spray tan. But not on my face because I need my foundation to sit just right. There cannot be an extra glisten. It must be matte for the camera flash. A three hour nap to prepare for the mystery of this kind of a party. I must be well rested for any type of extroversion, any type of small conversation. It's so good to see you. Every time I see you I get reminded of CE fourru like for your skin is delicate. The small talk over screaming music pretending to be exactly where I want to be on a Sunday night. But this is an act of folly. It's folly. It's fake. Before 6pm Before 6pm that night I dream of my newly steamed sheets where I put my laterals at risk for a mere 30 to 90 minutes because Martha Stewart likes her sheet steam too but she probably has a station. But I only used my shower and clips and some kind of MacGyver. It wasn't easy but she has a team of trap laden people, probably lesbian steaming her sheets with an extra long steamer. I presume not a 10 year old target special on sale with a broken spout and crusty holes. What kind of steam gets on my sheets? I must not think about that. I dream of them dirty or rusty or not. I dream of nighttime. A nighttime hit of Indica to put my woes of life at rest and provide the perfect sensation for a hot shower of recollecting the night in an indulgent skincare routine of about an hour. I must get ready for bed. Normally I start at 7. Now I'm starting at 3:30 in the morning and I fell asleep before my retinol. My skin is gonna lose its luster that I worked so hard on by the time I wake up from this mere nap. 3:30 to 9:30 in the morning is not good for anyone. A life I would not wish on my worst enemy. When I plan. When shall I quench my thirst and my excitable neurons with the green tea? A smooth caffeine hits as I am deep in conversation with Taylor Swift and Travis Kelsey. This backed by a propanellol I could secure my spot in an upcoming music video. This backed by a propanellol I will be able to take in this interesting spin space and social experiment. My first Hollywood party. I'll take notes and what to tell my family and friends because we know they're all curious. How should I start? I open my notes app and carefully detail who I see and what they're wearing and what they're doing in the bathroom. I'll tell stories at TMZ about myself. It's time to make headlines. I want to be in the blinds. Gabby Windy frequently leaves aforementioned bar of the bar Chateau in the bathroom with a skip in her step. Gabby Windy is the best dressed of them all. We say blindly, but we know it's me. Gabby Wendy stays sat for three hours, putting her legs at risk of a blood clot and smoking 1.5 cigarettes. Somebody ultrasound those arteries. I know there's sticky. What was it like? What? What? What did it smell like? They'll say, what did it look like? Hard to say unless you have X ray vision. And that I will sh not upon you because God only knows what's on that spattered floor. Sins, Lewdness. Libations of cheap liquor. What will it take to fit into this kind of scenery? And do I want to? I'm a mere mortal, hailing from small Midwestern military bases. All I know is how many stripes are on the flag and where the nearest chili is and Red Lobster for celebrations. I dig deep and cannot find the confidence. My shoulders roll forward and my neck rolls. Vince, my Plebeian childhood. Everyone knows I'm an outsider. I don't know any of these people and over my dead body will I be a hanger on her. I will not sink my claws into the popular girl so one day I might make it onto her stories Even though I am desperate for fame but my pride is bigger. Not me. I'll live in a lonely solitude before I sacrifice this pride. So I'll stick to the back and observe by one tiny sip by tiny sip of a skinny margarita and after three full glasses of tiny sips maybe I'll get up and dance My favorite activity I'll hypnotize the crowd every person in the room by my thrusting hips and disconnecting arms to seduce, to seduce every esteemed producer who might be lingering director and wannabe in the room I'll take any attention I can get. I don't care if you're a poser. Okay, I have a plan. And then a team of suitcases with sci fi products to shape shift me walk into the room and I only slightly recognize my home and myself for my identifiable clip atop my head disappears. Who is she? But don't I want to look like myself? Can't I just throw it up in a pony? A fun bun? Or shall I opt for a cat eyed dark eye and which no one seems to recognize? No, I want to look like myself but prettier Please put it on just right for the camera flash Will make me look effortless and ethereal Like Kate moss in the 90s after railing a line A tragic no makeup makeup look Please, I beg I entreaty for a no makeup makeup look. There's an awful lot of concealer under my eyes what kind of a note should I I be wondering from this peculiar placement it goes on heavier and heavier what are we trying to hide? Not so thick on my crow's feet I only just ordered a real silk mask to help them disappear forever around my almond shaped eyes but it's too early to have this kind of cake in my face. A crinkle of a smile and some may wonder if I've ever made that face before and I must not let them know I've ever smiled in my life I ask for a messy curly oopsie. I have perfect hair like the French dog like this but, but, but but it comes out a little too, too curled and too pretty but only at the bottom For I look like a mushroom, a fungi girly, a spore, A single type of mold found in the dark forest of a Hollywood lair.

C (18:06)

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B (18:16)

You need a bubble.

C (18:18)

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Need a little soda to change your vibes.

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B (18:40)

Which kind am I gonna get?

C (18:43)

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E (19:07)

We've all been there. You hold onto a coupon but forget about it and suddenly it's expired.

F (19:12)

Expired in 2012.

B (19:14)

Dang it.

E (19:14)

Fortunately, by switching to Geico, you could save about 900 on car insurance without ever touching a coupon.

F (19:20)

It feels good to save big. It feels good to Geico.

B (19:24)

I don't know. I don't know. But it does come together after a half of pot of a wax lfg, I say to myself. Except no, because those letters were never come out of my mind or my mouth. I trade a cool pics camera for the night for a bowl of steel cut oats. I need the perfect digicam for a night I will immediately forget. Maybe I can post on Instagram so the plebeians will know I'm invited to a chic Hollywood party. I have to let you know because you only see me in my robe at home. Ah yes, she can step out like every other favorite influencer who party goes with the famous of them all. But obviously I don't take one picture and only worry about the camera slipping through my greasy fingers after. After trying the burger and the french fries and the grilled cheese. But it's a precious camera for my good friend Liz who found it in her childhood home. I shall double stick it to my hands. A camera with a fast that could easily, easily disconnect from my perspired palms from deep anxiety. But as I delicately watch for the camera, I also watch my American spirits. But luck doesn't follow me then as I leave them behind and on retrieval, every last one has been pilfered. My eyes are on you philanderers cause I know you. You're sick of Smoking on those skinny cigarettes lying around and you make a go for the best cigarette around with a good puff at the expense of me. You want to rip a dart? Well I see you perpetrator an hour later with a light on its way to my American spirit. I can see that logo a mile away, for I have Eco Vision 2010 and I know exactly what the logo looks like. I move with haste and steal it out of his mouth, take him to the ground in a leg hold. This is mine you fucker. You think I have points at 711 for no reason? I just signed up you. You Rufian. You wouldn't know taste if it headbutted you on that six head. It's awfully large and now even larger with an almost puff of the best nicotine there is out there. It's growing. It's growing because of me. You're welcome and that's what you deserve. He taps out of the leg hold to forfeit and I take that cigarette and light it myself. This is mine. Take back what's yours. I don't care how small Anyways, so so we get there and I step out of the Uber black with double stick tape wandering from its designated spot placed on my dainty little shoulders to the precarious strap of the dress I chose because I prefer hardship and pain and the only time I opt for an Uber blockers when people are gonna see otherwise. It's Uber pool. Hey stranger, I say to the actual stranger in the back. It's called being financially conscious. If not one important person is gonna see me in this blue Toyota Corolla, I'll take it to Beverly Hills so I can get high on laughing gas before a fountain of youth. Procedure non invasive, might I add. I'm going there right after this. So Robbie re ties the Rubik's Cube like lace to the top of my dress while a nipple slips. I'm running out of patience, baby. My heels are slipping on the cobblestone. I need to get these legs a moving. My thighs are exhausted from a 30 minute walk and my butthole sore from clenching. Suck it in, suck it in, I say to myself. We make the brave steps, one foot in front of the other, only to see a seizing show of lights by the paparazzi. Normally I'm a honey baked ham when I see the paparazzi. When I see the camera. Oh, turn it on Gabby. Show off your new engagement ring. Only once before has that happened, so now I'm surprised that they want my picture. A mere lady with humble beginnings and A few viral reels. Wait a second. Let me pose with my good side. It's the left. One more second. Is my lip perfectly over lined to give the chic fresh off the needle look that I go for upon leaving the house or maybe inside the house? Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Is my areola making eye contact with your HD camera? And a flash. You pervert. You wouldn't tell me, but all is seemingly in order. And then I remember I'm bloated, I'm on my period and have too many things hanging out of my hand. Baby, will you hold my fur coat? And the cobblestone is slick with warning. I start to walk like a baby deer while millions of cameras flash. No, not my legs turned in. I make a mental note to ask Google to technologically remove these photos from every site, every computer, every vision. Robbie takes me by the hand like a good husband and I walk bloated, fresh off in Advil, wishing it was the Adderall from Mexico I got years ago that barks at me in a storage bin in the kitchen. Take me. It'll save you. But I cannot deal with the anxiety. My supposed to be French curls have fallen all over my face due to the softness of my lengthy locks. It's losing its Parisian roots, transitioning right before my eyes into that monster of cousin it. It's all over my face. It's in my face. You can't tell my face. And thank God. I can only hope that my gam still go all the way up in order to steal the spotlight. For I spent the day overheating in a homemade scuba suit due to my fascia blasting malality. You guys remember this? But the only thing that can help is compression to assist in these fraudulent lumps in my legs. So I wear tights that go all the way up underneath. A short of compression with suspenders. I don't know how they got in my possession, but I put them on. So I sweat all day. But no relief comes from the coral wreath to cool me down. And I start to wonder how long I can hold my breath for as the scuba suit pulling at my method acting strings, I say to myself, now rise to the top. Slower, I say to my scuba partner. Too fast. We don't want the bends.

C (26:32)

Slower, slower. Over there is a school of fish.

B (26:37)

But who cares? We might get the bends. After my free dive, we enter the chateau main entrance looking for the party of a lifetime. And we learn we're at the wrong door. No, no, we have to walk 500 meters uphill. Both ways in my slippery Saint Laurent shoes. Isn't there a golf cart? Please. Please help me. Do you know how many men with a camera they can't afford who are dying to take my picture? I cannot go back there. I cannot go back there. It's social suicide. Robbie's brother Shmoly. Shout out to Shmoly. I know you're listening. Says that no one gets accustomed to fame faster than I do. I want a back entrance already. Is there a back door we can go? No, not the bathroom. I need a secret entrance. I can't do the path. Walk of shame. One more. Again. A lady in the pictures. Are they worth more than words? It's worth money. But my uterus is shedding as we make eye contact. Do they want a picture of my big bloody pussy? How about a rogue cramp that brings me to my knees? How much can they sell? A picture of true womanhood? You see that running down my leg? It's bright blood. It's bright red this season of the moon cycle. And I don't know why. And you wouldn't know why either because you don't have a uterus. You don't know what it's. What it's like to walk around with a non organic stuffed cotton reaching your cervix. Anyways, we take heed and run past the sea of people trying to ruin my life with candid photos plastered all over the Internet with my face covered by a rented Prada mohair purse. Who do I think I am? Lindsay Lohan? I wish some of these tainted pictures, they manifest. They manifest on none other than the ubiquitous website known as Just. I know everyone's on this website. I know everyone has this saved. I see a picture of myself from Jared and wonder about my mother's proclivities while I was in the womb. Is it fetal alcohol staring back at me through the phone screen? I zoom. Maybe it's something undiscovered. Maybe it's a toxic mineral that we've never heard of. And she took it while I was in the baby womb and it transitioned to me through my belly button in that long hose. And it sucks the life out of my disconjugate gaze. Another assault on my facial features comes as. As the inter party photographer. The worst kind. Here he comes with the camera and his suit pose. And you better do it fast. With a camera gun to my head, my limbs are lifeless. I'm two tequilas deep and my mouth hangs open as if to wait for another grilled cheese silved on that silver platter. Please, please, just put them right in my mouth. About five to 10. They're tiny. The camera flashes. This burden, this burden of a life, this burden of a party. I cannot get any respite. Especially. Especially not through my olfactories. There's a stench of sorts here in the party. A dirty hallway filled with the incense of perverts and nefarious wants of maybe making a new friend in the odor. The smell of small men. May that scent never know. A bottle. No. And when I say small men, I mean small. You don't know when you get a peep at one. What? What? What? What quite you're looking at. And after getting rejected by the coat check, I see something as my eyes rise to the bottom that I cannot quite recognize. An underground species, maybe species. I get closer. Maybe a music producer of a sort that came from the cave. Of a sort. I get even closer. That's what Benny Blanco looks like. He's that small. And while I try and pass the newly discovered species, he doesn't move as centimeter. This species is stuck like stone of. Of. Of rudeness and insolence. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me. I say aloud. Someone mocking me in the front. Sorry. I'm polite. I say this to anyone that will set their ass free from their head. It seems like no one. And Benny must have a tight sphincter because there was no getting past him. He stuck his claim after watching me freestyle swim upstream against the tide of Hollywood's felite fake elite. Obviously, that's why I was invited. Finally, finally I'm able to squeeze past that small man. And I told everyone when I reached the bar and my beloved how tiny he was in person. Robbie tells me to whistle. Not at this point. Robbie and I, we settle in after two skinny margaritas Don Julio Reposado, which is close to trash, but the only thing my body can take and is also under a class action lawsuit. But you know, I love one of those. So we're blissfully in love. Just us two watching. Watching the scene progress around us. I'm sitting on her lap. A kissy kissy here, a touchy touchy there. We're in bliss no matter what is around us. And in walks a Bieber of a sort. A Justin Bieber. He gonna show you off. What a classic. I'll never get sick of that song. His head held surprisingly high after his Grammy performance. All in there.

G (33:13)

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B (33:36)

Robbie says, you know me and Bieber, we go way back because they're both from Canada, but completely different parts of Canada. But she owns the Canadian. Anyway, she loves him. The number one original Belieber. She sheds a tear. Maybe this was all worth ended. It ended as fast as it began. By means of an altercation, a hate crime, a destruction of our will. For Robbie, like a good husband, goes to look for my forlorn missing American spirits. And on the way there was a mere picadillo. If. If. If I may quote the the late Moira Rose. Well, Catherine o'. Hare. Where some glasses on her way were broken. They were spilled on the floor. Of course. We're in a bar and living in an imperfect world. Robbie is just in the middle by happenstance, for she is as innocent as a cloudless sky. Sure, she could have accidentally spilled the glass because she is clumsy, but either way, it's not like it's on purpose. If it was in her to be aware of her surroundings, she would. She doesn't choose this. But it's not the way she was designed and we love her for it. Sure, I'm missing a couple of my favorite dainty crystal wine glasses, but I love her. And she attempts to super glue them anyways immediately. Whoever's fault it was, Robbie apologized with her big heart. To those around her, including a big big big tall mind, I add skinny like it blow away from the wind man dressed like he wishes he was at a Paris fashion week. But no, this won't fly. And ha ha oui oui. She continues to apologize and goes on her way. You heard me? He says. Heard what? She said sorry. He starts to get upset with her for no good reason. And I know her. I know these in her in this situation. I can see her in her outfit of Martin Rose shirt putting a hand on the shoulder. I'm so sorry, man. She finally gets back, but then the tall glass of spoiled milk passes up and Robbie sticks up for herself and says says to him in a cordial tone, hey man, I didn't like the way you talked to me back there. That is my baby. A woman who knows how to stick up for herself. This is what we need. Why be coy and mute and amiable just because they say so? And because we are mere women. No, we must be Like I don't like how you talk to me back there, man. He's obviously never had a woman speak to him in this manner or. Or challenge him. And he starts raising his voice at Robbie. You didn't even apologize. I have a problem with the way you were speaking to me, ma'. Am. You didn't even look at me. You weren't sorry at all. She starts to defend herself. She get up. She gets up. Of course. Of course I did. What are you talking about? This goes on. I can't take it anymore. It's my turn to insert myself and defend my baby. Don't you talk to a woman like that. You are so embarrassing. She said she was sorry. And what is your mother's name and number? She needs to know about this awful behavior that I know she did not instill in you since birth. But you did one Nordstrom rat campaign, and now you think you're a model. What are you so afraid of? What are you so upset about? An accident. An accident? Getting a drink on your white suit. Well, that's a risk you take when leaving the house. Oh, you can't afford the rental. Been there, done that. Lesson learned. Oh, it's your dad's, and you're scared of Poppy giving you a spanking. Well, grow up. And your hat's ugly, and it's too big, and it makes your small head look even smaller. Your whole outfit is ugly. Your spirit is ugly. The way you treat my wife is ugly. And why don't you pick on someone your own size? He was two times Robbie's side. If he bent over to touch his nose, his tiny little prostate would match right up with Robbie's sweet nose. And. And. Do you feel so powerful bending over and yelling at a tiny woman? My tiny woman, you sick, misogynistic freak. He finally starts to walk away. And a corroborator, a friend with us who is also piping up. We have a gaggle of geese screaming at him. Don't you come for one girl? Because now it's three to one and we'll get you. But she hears him say lesbian. I cannot corroborate, but Robbie said to throw it in anyway. So here we are. 18 more cigarettes later, we're calling the Uber. Hallelujah, hallelujah. This time has come, we're free. And now I'm basically good for a year. For it is the ever present question of to be seen or not to be seen. Will it make me money? Will it make the days pass slower and sweeter? Will I love thyself more? Is it worth selling my soul or will it suck it for free? Chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing those layers of blush and a bare ass with a thong there's nothing to prove. I keep trying. I keep trying these parties. I keep trying to have a good attitude to no avail. So I'll be skipping the next ones and maybe I'll try again in 2027. But the real takeaway, the real takeaway that is. If you're with the one person you love, you will have a time for. Sometimes it's about being in a relationship, to be in different scenes and to have memories to take with you and to show your love in different surroundings. And I hate to admit, and I hate to say it, and I rue this day that we say we actually had fun together. I told you I had a lot to say. You know what? But that's all I have to say. And I hate that for us. But. But you know, I hate to leave you. And that is it. Okay? I'll see you next week. Ta ta.

F (41:03)

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H (41:33)

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