The first and fifteenth of every month are the High Holy Days for The Spousal Unit and me. I wasn’t actually religious until I met Carl, spiritual yes, religious no. The Catholics had beaten it out of me, quite literally, in the first three years of my parochial school upbringing. But on these two High Holy days of our month, we are forced to worship at the altar of Judi’ism, also known as the wire transfer of the alimony payment into the account of the ex-wife Judi. She will feed on the entitlement teet until The Spousal Unit’s 115th birthday apparently; an Obama supporter undoubtedly. Reminds me of my favorite bumper sticker, which features a naive child’s drawing of Obama’s head wearing a Santa hat, with a caption that reads “Messiah done come; you all be getting free stuff!” MEOW!! Bye Bye all my Democratic readers; Love You, Miss You Already!
Booger had his bandages, sutures, and cone removed Friday. OH HAPPY DAY. The black, purple, yellow, and green bruises dotting my legs from having that cone slammed against them multiple times a day for 25 days can now begin to heal. Pooter is also quite relieved to have that dreadful cone gone and has resumed her playful and peaceful relationship with the Booger, who now weighs 30 lbs. Nico has solemnly vowed that there will be no more suicide attempts or running away from home, so maybe there can be some peace in our kingdom, at least temporarily.
I can truthfully report I’m in the midst of a major love affair with my IPhone4 and my IPad; how did I exist prior to their arrival in my universe? Having perpetual trouble getting the photos I post on this site to appear where I want them to be, instead of just arbitrarily inserting themselves wherever. It’s a learning curve for sure.
I just started reading a book by Stephen King (yes, ‘The Shining’, ‘Pet Sematary’, etc.) called ‘On Writing’ and I’m telling you, this dude is FUNNY. We all know he can scare the bejeezus out of you, but funny was a delightful surprise. I was getting my hair “designed” the other day at my favorite salon, Curl Up and Dye, and was laughing so hard I had snot bubbles coming out of my nose. Here’s an excerpt where he describes various childhood babysitters:
“The only one I remember with any clarity was Eula, or maybe she was Beulah. She was a teenager, she was as big as a house, and she laughed a lot. Eula-Beulah had a wonderful sense of humor-there seemed to be a potential thunderclap hidden inside each hand-patting, butt-rocking, head-tossing outburst of glee. When I see those hidden-camera sequences where real-life babysitters and nannies just all of a sudden wind up and clout the kids, it’s my days with Eula-Beulah I always think of. Was she as hard on my brother David as she was on me? I don’t know. He’s not in any of these pictures. Besides he would have been less at risk from Hurricane Eula-Beulah’s dangerous winds; at six, he would have been in the first grade and off the gunnery range for most of the day. Eula-Beulah would be on the phone, laughing with someone, and beckon me over. She would hug me, tickle me, get me laughing, and then, still laughing, go upside my head hard enough to knock me down. Then she would tickle me with her bare feet until we were both laughing again. Eula-Beulah was prone to farts-the kind that are both loud and smelly. Sometimes when she was so afflicted, she would throw me on the couch, drop her wool-skirted butt on my face, and let loose. “Pow!” she’d cry in high glee. It was like being buried in marsh-gas fireworks. I remember the dark, the sense that I was suffocating, and I remember laughing. Because, while what was happening was sort of horrible, it was also sort of funny. In many ways, Eula-Beulah prepared me for literary criticism. After having a two-hundred-pound babysitter fart on your face and yell “Pow”, The Village Voice holds few terrors.” Funny, funny stuff. I truly believe that a good belly laugh a day is what keeps the doctor away (no offense apples).
I indulged in some shameless self-promotion this week. Got both sides of my vehicle painted with my blog address and logo. Makes me glad I haven’t yet traded in my 7-passenger mommy van for that cute little Mini-Cooper convertible I’ve been eyeing. This way it’s rather like a giant, two-sided billboard rolling down the road. The most exciting thing that happened this week was the serendipity of reconnecting with an old friend I’d lost touch with for five years. When the Titanic-like disaster that held me down under water and very nearly drowned me struck in 2005, her job changes and the two of us moving, etc., caused us to lose touch. This spring, as I began to emerge from my almost five-year-long quasi-coma, I tried everything short of hiring a private detective to find her, but to no avail. Imagine my delight when her name popped up on an incoming email. I told The Spousal Unit that hers wasn’t such an unusual name; it surely couldn’t be that Marilyn. But when she signed off using her old alter-ego, trailer-park name, I knew immediately I’d found the friend who rented a summer house on Fire Island with me, who vacationed with me, and who probably knew more about me than any one on the planet. Hours on the phone later, it was like those five missing years never happened. And how weird is this? She and her husband are moving here to NC from NY and closing on their new house on December 1; go figure! I have vowed to never again be casual with a friendship and all the history that comes with a great one; they are just too rare and precious to allow to drift out of your life.
I wish I’d had that wisdom when I was 20 something and hanging with some of the most amazing women on the planet, all of whom were models or photographers. Perhaps the arrogance of youth led me to believe that special friends would always be plentiful and in never-ending supply. Most of us were new to modeling and shared everything we had, from our meager wardrobes to tips about which photographers to avoid like the Black Plague. One was married to a famous football player and in our eyes Gabby had everything, a high-rise apartment on the upper Eastside in a doorman building, endless designer clothes, and handbags stuffed with dollar bills and credit cards. Fast forward to a chance meeting at a restaurant 15 years later to find that the famous football player had ditched her along the way for a younger, taller version. And there was my wonderful, tomboyish friend Heather, who looked exactly like Jean Shrimpton. I could never understand why she wasn’t on every magazine cover imaginable, but she just didn’t catch the fancy of the editors. Last I heard she married a wealthy Greek shipping tycoon who adored both her and her endearing obsession with the Grateful Dead. Then radiant, bubbly Samantha, who quickly ditched the husband she brought along from Indiana for complete submersion into Scientology and life in LA. When I saw her five years later she looked and sounded like a wind-up doll version of a Stepford wife. Maggie also had an inconvenient small-town husband in tow when she fell in love with Chad, a very married art director. Chad’s soon-to-be ex-wife, taking exception to the inclusion of a girlfriend in her marriage, promptly blew up the houseboat Maggie and Chad were then living on; fortunately no one was home at the time. This statuesque, Midwestern, Cybil Shepard lookalike, got the silly notion that she was fat because she didn’t fit the size 4 most of us wore and became my first, but sadly not my last, anorexic friend. Quinn and her handsome husband were top fashion photographers who would book me for practically every job they shot and who would prove instrumental in getting me into TV. One day she discovered God, began toting her bible everywhere, stopped wearing makeup, began dressing like a swami, and ended up leaving her bewildered husband and the business they had so carefully crafted in order to submerge herself in some fundamentalist west coast cult. And finally, blonde, fragile, porcelain doll Alexis, whose irrationally jealous Lebanese husband’s hobby was beating the crap out of her whenever any other man so much as glanced in her direction, which was approximately every 17 seconds. Talk about killing the goose that laid the Golden Egg. Vogue finally stopped booking her after the third or fourth time she arrived for a shoot with angry bruises covering her exquisite face. Eventually, he’d broken her face so many times, and her lies to cover up for him had grown so outlandish, that her spirit became shattered to the point that she quit the business. What I would give to get all those ladies together for a reunion. A few bottles of Cuervo and Jack, a handful of joints, and I believe a whole new book would be waiting to be written.