I’m over at their house sitting on their plastic-covered couch (apparently TomCat is worried I’ll get the poltergeist souls of dead aliens all over everything) and Tom is jumping up and down on the couch like crazy (that’s a relative term in the TomKat household) talking about “they’re not gunna find out they’re not gunna find out!!!” I tried to set my wine down like in that one tempurpedic commercial I did, but it kept tipping and sliding and it was really expensive non-alco vino (sheesh, Hubbard, you could’ve left SOMETHING fun in life!!!) so I held it close to me, pouring in a tip or two of whiskey to bring it back to life when Tom wasn’t looking.

“Tom,” I said, “what made you think you could get by with making up a fake baby story?”

That cold, spooky, steely stare came across his face. Manic time goes on pause. (He must have the same coach as Jim Carey?) He looks at me, holds out that finger like he does in every serious moment in any movie he’s been in, and says, “We’ve got that covered,” letting a sly foxy smile creep up his face. I shuddered a little when his teeth appeared, but I grabbed my arms and pretended I was cold, something my acting coach, Valhallah, taught me. “Brrr. Windy!” I said. Snapping his fingers, in comes Katie … with a frigging Cabbage Patch Kid. Are you kidding me with this?

Tom held it up to his face to show me the likeness, and honestly I have to say that I could see a little similarity there: translucent white skin, blank-dead stare, emotionless, gigantic schnozzle (and in this case the saying isn’t true – heard it “straight” from Mario Lopez!). Mix in a little Kate, and who’s going to know? Tom told me to go down the hallway and take the second door my left. A little concerned (but knowing that my agent knew where I was so at least if they killed me she knows who to cast in the made-for-tv movie of my murder), I got up, walked down the hall (how many pictures of L Ron Hubbard do these people have??? I count 32 so far!!!) and stopped at door number two. Opening it, my breath was taken away.

On every wall and even parts of the ceiling were diagrams, boxes, balloons, thought bubbles, printouts, M&M wrappers, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and pieces of red yarn attaching multi-colored pushpins, all ending up looking like a giant crazy science project that only some mad genius could have created. A hand-scribbled sign that said “PRODOTYPES” (Ugh! Scientology clearly didn’t make you a better SPELLER, Tom!!!) with pictures of various dolls, from Blythe to Cabbage Patch. The shudder came over me again, but no open windows or air vents to blame it on this time.

A voice from behind me growls, “I’ve got it all thought out. It’s perfect. There’s nothing that can possibly go wrong.” I stayed put, taking it all in. Countries, dates, child actor headshots. These crazy kids were going to pull off the biggest hoax in the world, I had little doubt.

“Oh Tom,” I said, “Pops Hubbard would be proud to have a son like you. Have you thought of starting your own religion, you know, just for kicks? Just to see if you could? Take after the father you never, ever, never, never, ever had?” Katie came in behind him (she’s not allowed to stand in front or to his side – some creepy religious thing they have worked out, I guess), and said, “Now if I could just find out how to carry a pregancy right.” She and I had some talking to do – I showed her the trick that I learned from another starlet who shall remain unnamed for how to wad up a bunches of grapes and a gallon of sour cream in a plastic trash bag. It’s lumpy, but it moves well and it looks so real! “Hey, at least it’ll be a virgin birth, huh?” Tom said, 100% serious. Katie just kind of looked up and nodded. Hmmm. I guess someone’s got some ‘splainin’ to do, Katie!

I finished off my wine, said thanks for the great (No really! Really! Of course we’ll do it again soon, TomKat!) evening and made a bee-line for the door.

That is aboslutely the last time I bet against Oprah in the Horse-Face Horse-Race! For those not in the loop, Oprah has a Nielson Ratings betting pool for Kathy Griffin’s show, and that’s what it’s called. And Oprah always wins. Fine Winfrey. Clearly you’re the bigger woman.