“It really isn’t that embarrassing, Harry,” I lied, caressing his arm thoughtfully to sooth his bruised ego.
Then I slapped him across the face.
“Wake up honey!” I shouted. The slap startled Harry Belafonte from the slumber he slipped into while I was talking. “As I was saying, it really isn’t that embarrassing. You know the media has the attention span of a geriatric blow fish. One minute they’re making your accidental on-camera nap a YouTube sensation, the next the masses are on to the latest idiotic drama being played out on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
Now I was squirting him with a water bottle to keep his attention. “Trust me, it will be forgotten about in a couple of days.”
I turned my attention to a crackling coming from the dining room floor. I looked down to find Buttercup perusing the latest headlines in one of my news periodicals.
You may not know this, but Buttercup is committed to staying abreast of current events. Politics. International economics. Foreign policy. You name it, he’s digesting it. Figuratively and literally – since he usually ends up eating whatever he reads. He was making his way through People magazine when he came across an image of Katy Perry performing while on tour in the UK.
The site of Katy set him into a rage and he began furiously ripping the magazine to shreds.
I should point out that for reasons I’m unable to disclose pending police investigation, Buttercup is NOT a Katy Perry fan. So whenever he sees a picture of her, he flies into a violent tirade that inevitably results in my having to replace furniture or feigning shock and disbelief when a neighborhood pet or toddler goes mysteriously missing.
Ordinarily I’d scold Buttercup for such an inappropriate outburst and take away his internet porn privileges – but in this case, I couldn’t really blame him for being upset by this particular image of Katy. Say what you will about my dear Buttercup – but this is one crazy nastyass honey badger who knows a fashion offense when he sees one.
Unless her intention was to apply for a entry level job on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line in Willy Wonka’s factory, I have to concur with Buttercup that she would have been better off wearing the plastic bag she sings about drifting through the wind, wanting to start again.
Start again, Katy. Start. Again.
I turned back to Harry, who was now propped up against the refrigerator snoring. I threw a pepper grinder at his head, and it knocked him over. The fall woke him abruptly – so now that I had his attention again, I continued, “And anyway, your little nap via satellite isn’t nearly as damaging as the press my poor dear Lindsay Lohan is getting about her questionable oral hygiene.”
Harry’s eyes started to get heavy again and he lay his head on the pepper grinder as if it were a pillow while my lecture continued, “Just think about that for a moment, Harry. The next time you start to feel sorry for yourself, think about all those nasty things people are saying about my little darling’s meth mouth just because her teeth are starting look like Indian corn.”
I didn’t have time for this nonsense. I should be spending every waking moment planning strategy for the upcoming election. In case you’re living under a rock with no internet connection, I should fill you in on Betty White’s latest pet project in her pursuit to be the most popular girl on earth. She’s decided Hollywood isn’t big enough anymore to sustain her thirst for the chewy center of attention – so she’s announced on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show her plans to run for the Presidency.
You should know it was not my idea to be Betty’s campaign manager. I wanted no part of this hot mess. But she is my best friend – so when she asked me, I was compelled to oblige without argument. Besides, she’s been my alibi more times than I can count whenever I’ve landed in sticky situations that required tampering with DNA evidence or disposing of a mouthy “loose end.” Therefore, I wasn’t exactly in a position to decline.
So I really don’t have time for the petty dramas of my embarrassing friends right now. I need to focus if I am going to orchestrate a flawless tour of kissing hands and shaking babies on the presidential trail (Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.). Managing crisis PR would be a full time job as it is in the face of the political mud-slinging that was sure to ensue the moment Betty’s opponents start digging into her questionable past.
I slid the snoring Harry Belafonte into one corner of the kitchen, put a blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. Then I wrapped his foot in gauze and slapped Buttercup on the nose for not minding me when I told him NOT to gnaw on Harry’s toes.
“Bad Buttercup!” I said in a hush whisper as not to wake the dozing Harry. I didn’t want to be in the room when he discovered this little piggy went home. And by home, of course I mean it ended up in Buttercup’s belly.
He’s gonna be pissed.
I spent the rest of the afternoon mapping out the campaign trail. I’m still undecided between having a kick off event at Dunkin Donuts or at a bath house. After all, it’s important to go where the voters are….and getting the police on Betty’s bandwagon wouldn’t be hard. After so many indecent exposure and solicitation arrests, they’ve all gotten to know her pretty well already. And there’s no better time to influence the gays than when they’re in the middle of getting a handy-j in the steam room.
It was a toss up. I decided to give it some more thought while enjoying donut holes during a refreshing eucalyptus steam at the spa.
Love ya like blanketing the campaign trail with “White Power” posters,
I adore Chaz Bono.
That little ballroom tranny is like a son to me…and the daughter I never had. I practically raised him back in the day when Cher was out partying every night like a starved cougar in heat, trying to turn back time. And despite the fact that I’ve been engaged in a nasty feud with that no-good, contemptuous shrew – I have to hand it to her for birthing such a lovely young man.
I have been glued to the television for weeks now tuning into his performances on Dancing With The Stars like the proud, preening Aunt marveling at how far he’s come since the days we’d play “dress up” in his venomous mother’s closet, and put on talent shows on our pretend stage with spotlight to an eager audience.
Well, it wasn’t so much “dress up” as it was me squeezing into sequent Bob Mackie gowns and trying on wigs while a butch little girl remodeled the interior of the closet with cedar lines shelves. And it wasn’t so much a pretend stage as much as the tool-belted girl installing soft can lighting and wide planked-bamboo floors. Oh, and it wasn’t so much an eager audience as it was a stoned Betty White giggling into her half-empty Cheetos bag.
Those were good times.
Embracing the sentiment of my strole down memory lane, I decided to surprise my little Snickerdoodle with a good-luck gift just before the season premier of DWTS. It was nothing big. Just a Bostitch 1-3/4 inch coil roofing nailer made from durable magnesium with aggressive wear guards and carbide inserts. I have no idea what it’s for or what it does, but the stalky Asian lesbian with an eye-patch at Home Depot seemed to get so excited when she showed it to me, I assumed it must be useful – or at the very least an erotic toy during foreplay.
Boys and their power tools.
Chaz was beside himself with joy over this little gesture of love and support just before his big debut on the dance floor. He was so moved, he decided to return the gesture with a gift of his own. It arrived last week. It is quite possibly the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received…and that includes the gift certificate for “Talk Away the Gay” counseling I was given for Easter from Michelle Bachman’s wife.
I’d been talking about getting a pet for months now. It’s been rather lonely around the house since my bengal cats and chinchillas were mysteriously kidnapped just before my estranged ex-boyfriend Kanye West and his latest ho were seen walking the red carpet in floor length coats made from, surprise surprise, bengal cat and chinchilla fur.
So last week, to my joy and delight, I opened the door to a giant box with a big checkered flannel bow. The card was from Chaz, and it read, “For my favorite Aunt, with love – Chaz.” I opened the box to find the most darling baby honey badger.
Not a kitten. Not a puppy. Not a parakeet. But a h-0-n-e-y b-a-d-g-e-r.
I was touched. I scooped up the little guy and cradled him tightly and cooed and chirped as if he were a newborn crack baby just waking up from surgery to remove a third foot. It was love at first site. Or, in this case, at first bite. Because that’s what the little guy did as the fog of sleepiness subsided. He bit me. He bit the shit out of me.
Later that day, I was sitting in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai waiting to have my right index finger reattached. I sat there wondering how I managed to let this digit get away from me – AGAIN. It seemed like only yesterday I was having it reattached after accidentally coming in between a rotisserie chicken and Oprah just after finding out Barbara Walters got the exclusive with Casey Anthony’s attorney.
“You’re just the cutest little thing!” Betty White cooed as the little honey badger licked her palm. She had a way with him. He seemed completely taken with her, and couldn’t get enough of those little Benadryl tablets she gave him as treats. “I like your spunk!”
She was right. He did have spunk. I think that’s what endeared me to him so quickly just before he bit off my finger. I liked his style – and I lost myself in all the good times we were sure to have. I thought of all the adorable couture collars and sweaters I’d buy him. The walks we’d take to the dog park where we would hand out fliers promoting desegregation and equal rights for honey badgers. I was euphoric. Or just really light-headed from the loss of blood. I’m not sure which, but it was a happy buzz – and either way it was because of that sweet, possibly rabid baby badger.
Just before I passed out and wheeled off for a blood transfusion, I decided on a name.
I would name him Buttercup.
A week later, we had just started getting somewhere with the potty training – and I was getting some feeling back in my reattached finger. So I decided we deserved an afternoon out.
That’s when the trouble started…and now Nicki Minaj is not speaking to me.
If you ask me, it was her fault to begin with. One of the reasons I established an instant bond with Buttercup is because I’ve observed that he has a fierce sense of fashion uncommon to rodents at such a young age. He hasn’t even experienced New York Fashion Week, and already has the discriminating sensibility to distinguish between chic haute couture and tragic fashion road kill. And like my dear friend Anna Wintour, he is unafraid to bare his fangs when a red carpet frock appears to be beaten down hard with an ugly stick.
So I maintain that Nicki has no one to blame but herself for nearly having her lavender tutu ripped to shreds when Buttercup went ballistic at the site of this outfit. He went straight for her neck as if to make it clear that she had no business sporting a necklace that looked like a giant turd painted in Pepto Bismol.
If it weren’t for Betty loaning me the electro-shock collar she used to keep her maid in line, I would not have been able to hold back little Buttercup from going all “honey badger” on her ass.
These girls fall like dominoes. Yo Ayo Ayo.
Fortunately, Nicki wasn’t at all hurt by Buttercup’s outburst on the red carpet. Just a bit shaken up is all. I promptly took my fashion-crazed baby badger home and grounded him for the rest of the month.
“No television. No texting. And no pistachios, Buttercup! Now go to your crate and think about what you’ve done.” I said, pointing my swollen, purple stitched-on finger in a show of exasperated disapproval.
He just starred at me blankly. Clearly, Buttercup don’t give a shit.
Love ya like a transgendered cha-cha-cha,
“Dude, you’re like, 42.” I said to Mariah Carey over mimosas and gummy bears this morning.
I was about three pitchers into my usual Sunday morning ritual of drinking and thumbing through the day’s headlines. Just as I was turning the page from an in depth feature in In Touch where Bristol Palin reveals she lost her virginity with Levi while being blitzed on wine coolers, I noticed Mariah’s new ad promoting her trio of fragrances “Lollipop Splash the Remix.”
She wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was captivated by a pink baby rattle shaking in front of her face as Betty White cooed “Who’s the pretty girl? Who’s the pretty little girl with stretch marks and crows feet? Who is it?!?”
Mariah just giggled and chewed on the ear of her Hello Kitty plush doll. Then she burped.
“Mariah, dear…aren’t you a bit old now for bedazzled butterfly hair clips and lollipops in your perfume ads? You are a mother of twins now – and about two Divas Live concerts away from hormone replacement therapy and hot flashes. I think it’s about time you ditch the aging tween schtick and start looking at adopting a more age appropriate sophistication. At a very least, finding a bra that isn’t three sizes too small.” I urged.
She was texting now as she smacked her strawberry flavored Bubble Yum.
“You’re wasting your breath,” Betty chimed in. “She’s been working the same tired trampy school girl with a butterfly fetish look for the last twenty years. You think she’s going to stop now? You’d have better luck getting Elton John to wear beige Converse and khakis.”
She had a point. I was just concerned. It just seems to me that a woman in her 40′s wearing charm bracelets and butterflies while sucking on a lollipop in a perfume ad is about as tragically self unaware as a bald man’s combover or heterosexual marriage to Tom Cruise. Someone HAD to tell her – and after three pitchers of mimosas, it made perfect sense for that person to be me.
Her latest fragrances — a trilogy inspired by her playful personality — are Never Forget You (“gourmet jelly beans and golden peony”), Vision of Love (“French macaroon and purple jasmine”) and Inseparable (“raspberry, mango, jasmine and orange flowers”). It’s the ideal bouquet to compliment the succulent scent of Chuck E Cheese pizza at a Build-a-Bear party.
Rather than spend any more time trying to convince her that her “sweet-and-innocent-without-a-gag-reflex” image was embarrassing for a woman old enough to have released albums on cassette tape, Betty and I decided to humor her and spent the rest of the day doodling boys names on Pee Chee folders and taking the “Does He Really Like You or Does He Just Want a Blow Job” quiz in Seventeen magazine.
Love ya like hoping he just wants a blow job,
I’m not big on celebrating my birthday.
Not because I have a problem getting older. That doesn’t bother me at all. I stopped aging 15 years ago when I started pumping my face full of enough Botox to paralyze a hippo…and whenever something starts to sag, I simply have it removed, lifted, reshaped or replaced. So at any given time, at least 85% of my body is showroom new anyway, or at the very least previously owned with low mileage. In fact, I’m pretty sure my left ear used to belong to Mary Tyler Moore.
I enjoy the process of aging with grace. I just don’t feel the need to celebrate it with grand flair because inevitably, my friends have a way of making it all about them.
Take Lindsey Lohan for example. She had to go and get herself put back in jail for failing a drug test. Then she got out of jail. It’s been a few minutes, so for all I know, she’s back in jail again trying to snort cooking flour in the mess hall.
Then Betty White totally stole my birthday thunder by winning an Emmy for her performance on Saturday Night Live. But whatever. That’s old news. I’m a little behind the times, as I’ve been gone on holiday for quite some time.
This year, I decided to make it just about me. So I left town. For like, a month. I really needed to unplug for a while. You don’t turn 25 every day – and I just felt it was important to take some time to reflect on what I’d accomplished in my short 31 years on this earth. As it turned out, my little mediterranean jaunt was just what the doctor ordered – because I returned home feeling refreshed, renewed, revived and Rejuvidermed…ready to take on 29 with the same verve I did when I turned 34…19 years ago.
I was hoping to return unnoticed – as if I had never really left at all. Enough time had passed since my birthday, I figured my friends would have forgotten all about it.
No such luck.
Without fail, every year - Betty insists on trying to surprise me with an big birthday bash. And since I’m not an easy person to surprise, every year the surprises just get more extravagant and elaborate. She insists on topping herself with a surprise greater than the last. This year was no exception, despite my attempt to escape the observance all together.
I joined Betty, Elton John, Lenny Kravitz and Ann Coulter for what I thought was going to be a quiet, low-key dinner to celebrate my 35th birthday. A gentle, demure homage to the beautiful life of Aunt Johnny. I envisioned us spending the evening reminiscing over my 47 years of bringing sweetness and light to all the lives I’ve touched.
Instead, Betty took us to a strip club where 200 of my closest friends screamed “SURPRISE” while men and women jirated on poles wearing nothing but tassels and stilettos. Upon closer inspection though, I realized my 200 “closest friends” were perfect strangers.
“Betty, who are all these people?” I asked, licking whip cream from the abs of a well-muscled male stripper, “Why would you throw me a party and not invite anyone I know?”
“Every body throws surprise parties where the only people invited are friends. But no one thinks to throw a surprise party where no one is a friend!” she screamed with delight, clapping her hands together as if she just figured out how to upload photos to Facebook, “SURPRISE!!”
As it turned out, it wasn’t such a bad idea. I met a lot of interesting people that evening. I would have met more – but I spent much of the night keeping tabs on Ann.
She is what is known as a “mean drunk”. And she started out the evening pretty angry in the first place.
If you want to get technical, she probably started out puberty pretty damn angry and hasn’t felt any other emotion since. But in this case, she was still rubbing out the sting from falling flat on her face in a failed attempt at stand up comedy at Homocon – a convention run by gay Republicans called GOProud. She was billed as the party’s very own right wing Judy Garland.
Though, I’m not sure Judy would have addressed the Umpa Lumpas by saying, “Marriage is not a civil right. You’re not black.”
For that matter, she probably wouldn’t have suggested that the conservative gay-rights movement should link up with the anti-abortion movement because “as soon as they find the gay gene, you know who’s getting aborted.”
“Look Kitten, we’re celebrating my birthday tonight – so we are not discussing your poor decision to try and befriend the gays,” I said, touching up the make up of a large breasted female stripper, “You should have known better. The gays might be damned to burn in hell – but they have a biting wit that would crack up a hick in a coma. You’re a Republican…which means, you’re not funny. You’re not even interesting. You have sharp, angular features and hair that is is so bone straight it appears to be trying to escape from your head. When you put all of this together, what you have is an unattractive woman with the personality of a barbecued rice cake standing on stage trying to wow a bunch of self-loathing fags in Brooks Brother’s button downs. Consider this a lesson learned – and stick with appealing to those who believe in maintaining true traditional Christian values in this great nation while paying for hookers on the side.”
I later found her making out with a rather efeminate guy with a nose ring and sleave tattoos. Or a really butch girl with a nose ring and sleave tattoos. I’m not sure which. She seemed to be having a good time though, so I didn’t make a fuss.
Betty disappeared early in the evening with a stripper. The bitch has got some serious game now that she’s a media darling. Her pick up line “ever seen an Emmy up close?” works every time.
At midnight, the music stopped – and Elton had a giant cake wheeled out to the center of the club. It said “Happy 94th Birthday, You Old Bitch” written on top. It was covered in lit candles…apparently, one for every year of my birthday. The flames got a little out of control and set off the fire alarm and sprinkler system.
Ordinarily, I would have been miffed by Elton’s little dig at my getting a year older. But it all backfired on him since the sprinklers ruined his sequent smoking jacket and drenched his wig. He looked like a wet yorkshire terrier in drag. Turn about is fair play, after all.
Lenny was in a bit of a bind though. He had an early flight to New York and his clothes were too soaked to dry in time. So I lent him some of mine. Now everyone is calling him so “avante garde” for stretching the boundaries of fashion by wearing leather and knee-high wedge boots – and thinking it’s ok.
You’re welcome, Lenny.
Love ya like celebrating 41 on my 23rd birthday with close friends…and some not so close ones,
Link to Ann Coulter at Homocon: http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2010/09/ann_coulters_three-for-one_slu.html
Link to Lenny Kravitz Style Watch: http://stylenews.peoplestylewatch.com/2010/09/24/lenny-kravitzs-knee-high-wedge-boots-love-em-or-hate-em/?xid=rss-topheadlines&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+people%2Fheadlines+%28PEOPLE.com%3A+Top+Headlines%29&utm_content=Yahoo+Search+Results
My phone has been ringing off the hook today – which, to be honest, was a little inconvenient….and sort of annoying. Wednesday is the day I take voice lessons with Adam Lambert….and every time the phone rings, it really throws him off when he’s hitting those high notes. I can’t tell you who our voice teacher is – because I promised I wouldn’t…she’s very shy. But if I could tell you, I would tell you it’s Paula Abdul. But I can’t tell you – so please don’t ask.
Anyway, our voice teacher – lets call her Baula – was taking us through a very difficult voice exercise that involves trying to hold a very low baritone while swallowing a Percocet. It’s very challenging – but when done properly, really strengthens the vocal cords and leaves you feeling quite relaxed. Adam had reached his low tone and held it for a good 20 seconds before swallowing the pill – but as he was getting ready to gulp, my phone rang. My Susan Boyle ring tone startled the hell out of him – and he choked. Baula had to give him the Heimlich maneuver – which was tricky because she had to stand on a bar stool in order to do it. I would have done it, but I had to answer my phone.
It was Regis Philbin. He was PISSED. Kelly Ripa had shocked him on the air by premiering a new tattoo of her husband’s last name – placed on her wrist.
“You need to talk to Kelly! Someone needs to talk some sense into that girl!” he belted into the phone, “She got a tattoo, of all things, on her wrist! Who does she think she is? P!nk? Kat Von D? It’s madness!”
“You need to calm yourself, Reeg.” I began, “First of all, even if I wanted to school her on the downside of body art, she wouldn’t listen to me anyway. For years I’ve tried to convince her to lay off the air-brush tanning. Has she listened? No. She’s gone from a healthy bronze to an anorexic umpa lumpa – and quite frankly, her incessant rebellion against my counsel has taught me to just keep my mouth shut. If she wants to ink herself silly, so be it. I really could care less. I have to go Love, I’m in the middle of my voice lesson with Adam Lambert and Baula Rabdul. Give my love to Joy. You’re a peach. Kisses.”
So, back to the voice lesson. Baula wasn’t pleased with my baritone Percocet exercise (apparently it was “pitchy” in spots) – so for my benefit, she demonstrated the proper technique three times in a row – and before we knew it, she was laying across the top of the piano snoring. While Adam covered her with a blanket and turned her to the side so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue (again), my phone rang for the second time.
It was Victoria Beckham. Based on the tone in her voice, I could tell she was staring at herself in the mirror as she spoke, “Dahling, I’m bloody despondent and I need to talk someone. I’m a wretched mess.”
She explained that her arch nemesis, Joan Rivers was saying terrible things about her in an interview with Closer magazine. Joan’s quote:
”Victoria Beckham is so nasty. Why don’t she just go home?! Her dresses are beautiful, but I don’t care what she does. She’s mean to all the people around her. She’s too short to be a diva. We all use the same hair-dresssers, makeup artists, limo-drivers and greeters at the airports in LA and nobody has anything nice to say about her. They say she’s rude. She can’t be having a bad day everyday. Victoria Beckham should get a life. I am not a fan of outrageous consumption. I think it is vulgar.”
“Two things,” I said flatly, “You’re far too sensitive, Love Biscuit. Celebrities say hateful things about other celebrities in the media whenever they have nothing very interesting going on in their lives and need to keep the spotlight shining on them. It’s all for the sake of PR. Get a grip, V. Far more relevant stars hate your guts…you shouldn’t get your thong in a bunch over lil ol’ Joan. And PS, has anyone even ever heard of Closer magazine? I have to go…Adam Lambert is starting to use my printer cartridge for eyeliner. Give my love to Davey and the kids. Kisses.”
Talk about a wasted afternoon. We didn’t even get to my favorite voice exercise where we test our vocal range while doing tequila shots and whistling.
Love ya like hitting a high note on Ativan,
Those who aren’t close to us might think that Elton John and I don’t get along. Some might even believe us to be arch enemies. But that just isn’t the case. He is a dear, dear friend – and I would do anything for that ego-maniacal, washed up, glitter queen. I do get why people think we hate each other though – because our friendship has been built on years of harmless practical jokes that to some might seem mean spirited or slightly harmful to the skin. We show our love by slandering each other in the media, calling the other hateful (yet colorful and creative) names. But it’s all in good fun – and we both know it.
I remember this one time (it still cracks me up to think about it!), I thought it would be fun to take all the clothes in his closet and have them altered so they were three sizes too small and 4 inches too short. The poor dear walked around for a week in skin-tight sequent tops that exposed his belly and pants that looked like capris with broken zippers. He looked like a puffy Keebler Elf in drag…it was hilarious!
He evened the score a few weeks later by filling my swimming pool with soy milk and Rice Krispies – and hired Nick Nolte to swim in it naked and sing “Snap, crackle, pop! Snap, crackle pop!” When I came home and saw it, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing.
I thought, “That is SO sweet.” I was touched.
I heard he was going to be performing with Ga at the Grammy’s – and I wanted to show my support and wish him luck…so just sent an exploding box of chocolates to his dressing room. Well how was I supposed to know the big binge-eating hippo was going to tear right into them before the show? And he did it right before the two went out on stage together – and the exploding box of chocolate blasted black soot all over the both of them.
You know as well as I do that the show must go on – so the two went out on stage looking like they’d been working in the coal mines all day. That, my friends, is called professionalism.
So when I got home from the Grammy’s that evening – I came into my living room to find that Elton had delivered a little gift of his own. A book shelf:
Leave it to Elton John to trump my gift. It is lovely – and totally goes with the whole “less is more” vibe I have going on in my living room – but I have to be honest, I’m not quite sure if it will suit me long term. For one thing, it is a bitch to dust. And you have feed and water it, like, every day. I can barely keep a poinsettia plant alive during the holidays – how am I supposed to keep up with this?
Thankfully I have Nick Nolte to help out. He doesn’t swim ALL day – so this gives him something to do.
Love ya like an uncircumsized bookend,
For more information about the strange human art photographs, go to: http://dornob.com/strange-human-furniture-photos-not-safe-nor-work/
You just never know when creative inspiration is going to strike. But when it does, you just have to go with it. When Lady Gaga found out she was going to be the opening act at the 2010 Grammy Awards, inspiration for her red carpet ensemble struck at the oddest time.
Well to begin with, you should know that I don’t actually call her “Lady Gaga”. I shortened it to “Ga” quite some time ago. She seems to think it’s a term of endearment…a playful shortening of her name to reflect how close we are as friends. But to be honest, saying “Lady Gaga” simply takes too long and I just don’t have that kind of time.
Anywhore, from the moment she was booked to perform the opening number at the Grammy’s, she’s just been insufferable. She’s a bit of a workaholic, and God love her – it always results in exquisite performances with irreverent costuming…but sometimes, her obsessive creative process bugs. For weeks, I would get the strangest text messages at all hours of the day and night. Texts like, “What if I come out on stage wearing a dress filled with water and live goldfish with a giant net on my head? I could suck in my cheeks while I dance. It would be hot!”
Well, I have to be honest with her. She is a friend after all. If she had spinach in her teeth or came out of a bathroom with a tampon string hanging out (which totally happened one time at the Ivy), I would tell her. This was no different. So I responded, “You’re a dumbass. Live swordfish would be so much cooler. xoxo”
Finally, I got really tired of the texting at ungodly hours (I got one at 3 a.m. one morning when I was fencing with Winona Ryder. I could have put the poor girl’s eye out!) So I sent her a text that said, “Ga – ENOUGH! You’re coming over tomorrow and we’re gonna figure this Grammy’s thing out, because I’m OVER your constant texting! xoxo”
So she did. We spent the entire day doing arts and crafts in an attempt to get the creative juices flowing. I was scrapbooking my recent trip to Graceland, and she was making a Sonny & Cher salt and pepper shakers out of paper mache for her mom’s birthday.”
Nothing. Not a single good idea. Although we did decide that she would wear burlap leggings in her next music video. The chaffing is gonna suck – but that’s the price we pay for artful fashion.
A week later, we were practicing for a hula hoop competition we were entering when the inspiration for her red carpet ensemble came to me.
“Hey, what if you designed a dress out of a bunch of hoops? You could be like a solar system!” I said, getting more and more excited as I began thinking of accessories in my head, “And you could carry a clutch for your lipstick that’s shaped like a really pointed star!”
Ga’s hula hoop fell to the ground and she started to clap. Then she piddled.
You’re welcome, Ga. xoxo
Love ya like salting my pork chops with Cher,
There is nothing more heartbreaking than having to watch a dear friend lose touch with reality.
Things have been tough for Kelis since she and her ex-husband Nas, a well known rap artist, had a very messy and very public break up. For weeks after they split, the poor dear was camped out at the foot of my bed either curled up in the fetal position sobbing or eating bacon flavored Easy Cheese spray and gummy bears. It was a dark time. She refused to speak to anyone. She stopped showering and brushing her teeth. Every once in a while, after vacuuming, I’d douse her with Febreze to keep the neighbors from complaining.
Just when I thought she was making progress and getting back to her old “My Mildshake Brings All the Boys the Yard” self, she was devastated by another run of very bad luck. After a long, painful battle in court – a forlorn Kelis was sucker punched with a final award of child support to be paid by Nas. When she heard the monthly dollar amount, the poor girl nearly fainted. How was she supposed raise little baby Knight (named after her favorite part of the evening) on a paltry $44,000 a month?
My heart went out to her. I honestly didn’t know what she was going to do.
“Perhaps you could get a second job or something,” I encouraged, “I hear Bath & Bodyworks is hiring.”
I’m not sure if it was the threat of having to break down and apply for government assistance or malnutrition from severe dieting to get back into tip top shape only 6 months after giving birth – but somewhere along the line, the sad, pathetic little monkey just went off the deep end.
At first, when I saw this photo, I figured…ok, she’s going for the provocative, edgy vibe. You know, taking the train to funky town….but perhaps just slid a little too far south toward Camel Toe Island. Lesser celebrities have made far worse mistakes. But then we had brunch – and it became very clear to me that the poor, pathetic, lost soul had gone from ghetto fabulous to just plain koo-koo-ka-choo.
Before the mimosas came to the table, she was pleading for me to convince the “sky people” to go home and asking when Sigourney Weaver was going to join us for prayer at the tree of souls. Then, out of no where, she tried putting the end of her oddly long grey hair braid up against my ear to “bond” with me. Suddenly, girl talk over eggs Benedict turned into a weird scene out-take from James Cameron’s Avatar.
Poor people are sad.
Love ya like court-ordered anti-psychotic medications,
I don’t know why I was surprised to see Bai Ling in this get-up, but I was.
I guess I just expected more from her after I’ve been such a kind and thoughtful employer to her all these years. So to have her traipsing down the red carpet at the Sonia Rykiel lingerie collection bash for H&M in THAT is just a bit of a slap in the face, is all.
I can’t really say that Bai Ling and I are friends. Because we most certainly are not. I’m sure there are lots of people out there who are adequately equipped to offer friendship to a big noodle bowl of crazy like her, but I, for one, am not. I just don’t have the patience to deal with her incessant neurotics. I don’t have a heart made from coal, however…so when she came to me looking for a job – my altruistic nature got the better of me, and I graciously offered her work.
So for three years now, she has been mowing my lawn every other week. No, that is not a euphemism for something else. She actually does mow my lawn. She’s quite good at it actually. She is very precise and always has perfectly symmetrical lines (which I’m kind of nit-picky about…but she always does a first-rate job). Each month I give her ten bucks and a four pack of Diet Snapple – and around the holidays, I throw in Mariah Carey’s “Merry Christmas” album and a basket of snicker-doodles (that the bitch never does eat).
I think we can all agree that as an employer, I am more than generous. And then she does this to me. For over a month now, I’ve been wondering what the hell happened to my canary marabou bathrobe. At first, I thought perhaps Kirstie Alley borrowed it the last time we took a bubble bath together and accidentally forgot to return it.
Then I ran into Bai Ling at the H&M Lingerie Bash wearing THIS thing. She took pair of scissors to a perfectly gorgeous bathrobe to create what could best be described as something one of Big Bird’s bitches would have worn if he were a porn king. I was devastated.
So I told her, “Listen to me Bai Ling, this is unacceptable behavior – and I am docking your pay until that robe is paid for, and you can just forget about getting a Diet Snapple from my refrigerator ever again.”
I guess she felt bad, because the next day she left a half eaten Chipotle Burrito on my door step with a note on it that read, “I heart you.” I was touched.
Love ya like bubbles and marabou,
When I broke up with my boyfriend, Kanye West – again – I knew he was quite angry and heartbroken. He cried. He threw things. He begged. He fired, like, six people (one of whom didn’t even work for him). His theatrics were really rather embarrassing. I even heard he had some sort of weird outburst involving Taylor Swift during the MTV Video Music Awards.
The poor man was distraught – but had no one to blame but himself…cheating on me like that. And with the likes of Connie Chung and Bill O’Reilly? Granted, Bill is a hot piece of ass – so I really couldn’t blame him for that. But Connie? That was just insulting. I don’t care if she can crack walnuts with her woo-ha. Sending my no good, cheating boyfriend Kanye West packing was the best thing I ever did.
But I had no idea he could be so vindictive.
For years now, I’ve been raising chinchillas and white Bengal cats in my backyard. It wasn’t something I really planned on – it just sort of happened. Uma Thurman showed up at my house in the middle of the night (something she does more often that I’d like, frankly). And as usual, she was up to some shady business. She had lipstick on her teeth, yet oddly wasn’t wearing any lipstick – and she was only wearing one shoe. She rushed into my living room and immediately closed all the curtains.
“You gotta keep this for me.” She said, eyes darting around the room, breathless, ”Don’t ask questions – just take care of her, ok?”
She pulled out a plump chinchilla from her Berkin bag and handed her to me. Then she ran out leaving the door open behind her. I wasn’t exactly sure how one should care for a chinchilla – but how hard could it be? She was adorable, and we bonded almost instantly. I named her Florence.
Well, Uma does this shit to me all the time. She abandons this poor defenseless creature without telling me why – and then neglects to tell me that little Florence is knocked up. In a few weeks, I was the proud father of three bastard baby chinchillas. Well, I don’t know if you know this – but chinchillas are a randy bunch. Every time I turned around, they were mating – so before I knew it, I had a little farm.
The Bengal cats came later. I won’t bore you with that story – but suffice it to say, Paris Hilton is indebted to me for life. She should have known that Bengal cats wouldn’t be as easy to train as a chihuahua.
Incidentally, in case you ever find yourself in the same situation – it is NEVER a good idea to put chinchillas and Bengal cats in the same pen together. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I came home the other night to a surprisingly quiet homestead. The Bengal cats (Jennifer, Bernadette and Howard) were gone. Florence and all her bastard children (and all her children’s bastard children) were gone. I sat in front of the mirror and watched myself cry (because I look truly fetching with tears streaming down my cheeks).
Then I saw this picture.
Well listen up ex-boyfriend Kanye West – I am TOTALLY not taking you back this time. We are OVER.
And I want my Josh Grobin CD back.