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
Ever since Naomi Campbell appeared on Oprah to discuss her issues with anger management, she hasn’t been any fun at all. She hasn’t beat up one single servant in weeks – and quite frankly, I’m beginning to get concerned. And now, I find out she’s found Kabbalah. According to Page Six in the New York Post, She’s been meeting in secret with Madonna’s mentor, Eitan Yardeni.
Since when does she believe in the principles of Kabbalah anyway? Two years ago, she was bashing it in the media by saying, “I knew about kabbalah before Madonna got involved. Kabbalah is not a religion, it’s a program. I don’t like to get hooked on things like that. It reminds me of AA, but just with different words. They’ve got the same principles . . . I just believe in God. I am religious. I pray most days and do my thing. But each to their own.”
Now she’s drinking the Kabbalah Koolaid and getting all Zohar on our asses.
Where does that leave me? Does this mean we won’t spend anymore Friday evenings hiding behind trash cans outside Kohls and attacking poorly dressed patrons as they come out? Seeing her lose her temper and fly into a rage is what endears me to her most, and if she ends up finding peace through spirituality, I’m afraid we’ll drift apart and have nothing in common anymore. I was distraught with worry.
And Lindsay Lohan dropping buy to ask a favor was not helping matters.
“No, I’m not paying for your trip to Cannes,” I said flatly.
Desperate to go to the film festival this year to wrangle money for her recently green-lighted Linda Lovelace biopic “Inferno,” she’s been trying to swing a free trip for a while now, but no one seems willing to pay for it. I guess people are worried she’ll use the money on illegal cow tranquilizers instead of plane fare (again). So here she is in my living room, turning on the water works trying to guilt me into footing the bill while sneaking Tic-Tacs from my candy dish into her purse.
“You can just forget about it, young lady,” I continued, “And honey, those aren’t pills. They’re breath mints.”
She frowned and emptied out the stash she’d stuffed in her purse onto my floor and stormed out. Kids.
I could feel my tension mounting…and I needed to do something to blow off some steam. Since Naomi is too busy meditating in a hot room with incense, I had to find something to relax on my own. So I spent the afternoon applying peroxide to all of Elton John’s hair pieces. That did seem to relax me a little.
Love ya like the good ol’ days terrorizing unattractive people with Naomi Campbell,
Link to Lindsay Lohan Story: http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/no_free_ride_C4CqCwpRTHSjwrVPcBWslO
Link to Naomi Campbell Story: http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/naomi_has_fresh_eye_on_kabbalah_4HQ2LWLYgD8T45wZENHYoK
“Why me?” Lindsey Lohan whined to me this morning as she refilled my martini glass.
She was referring to her unfortunate luck having taken a nasty tumble into a cactus after an evening partying with friends at the Trousdale club last night. These things always seem to happen to the poor dear while cameras are around.
“Well honey,” I said, taking a sip of my breakfast, “It might have something to do with the fact that you’re always shit-faced drunk or as high as a disco ball shot out of a canon.”
I wasn’t in the most sympathetic of moods this morning – having been up most of the night picking thorns out of her whoo-ha while wondering quietly to myself, “How did I get here again?”
Love ya like tweezers to a thorn-laden ass,
Ok, I’ve had it. I’ve just had it. There is only so much I’m willing to take – and now I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit.
I’m aging myself by admitting this, but I’ve known Lindsey Lohan since she starred in the remake of “The Parent Trap”. I babysat her several times back then – and we developed a very close relationship. She looks at me like a father figure…you know, if her father were a flaming homosexual. Her parents acted more like teenagers than parents – so I provided the much needed discipline and guidance she needed at such a delicate age.
It’s no secret that Lilo has had some issues over the last few years. Drugs, sex, a brief stint as a lesbian. I’ve stood by her and defended her. I’ve wiped the cocaine from her nose in the morning and exfoliated the hell out of her when she got a little too crazy with the self tanner. I’ve even beat the crap out of her when she thought she could pull off platinum blond hair. I’ve been everything a good father should be.
But now I have to draw the line.
She stopped by today to take me to lunch. When I opened the door to her Mercedes S Class, I almost fell over from the waft of stink that blasted out at me from inside the car. Well, I did fall over in fact. But it wasn’t because of the smell. I was knocked over by a pile of trash that came streaming out of the car when I opened the door. Old newspapers. Underwear. Month old bags of fast food. Evening gowns. A possum. You name it, it fell out. I looked in the back seat – and it was piled high with all kinds of crap.
“Kitten, what in the hell is all this stuff?” I asked, bewildered and slightly dizzy from the odor.
“What?” she asked, seemingly confused by my question, “I need all this stuff. I like to be prepared in case something comes up and I need a change of clothes or a snack.”
I figured this must be another one of her odd “phases” – so I dusted myself off, moved the possum out of the way and sat on top of some InStyle magazines and a box of tampons and closed the door.
After lunch, she took me back to her place – and it was there I realized her little odd “phase” was much more serious than I thought. Stuff was everywhere. Boxes piled high. Dozens and dozens of racks of clothes, HUNDREDS of shoes, and several wedding dresses (which sort of confused me, actually).
“Auntie, I need a favor,” she said from behind a giant box of “Freaky Friday” DVDs, “I’m running out of room in my place – and I need you to keep some stuff at your house for me.”
I wasn’t sure that just saying “No” would really get through to her, so I picked up a bag of Alpo dog food (she had like eighteen of them sitting there in the living room – and the bitch doesn’t even have a dog) and threw it at her.
“Come on!” she cried, “You have a ton of space at your house. And didn’t Elton John just give you a new shelf?”
“I refuse to enable your hoarding, dear. I was willing to keep all that imported Colombian cooking flour you had in my garage – but you burned that bridge the minute I found out it wasn’t cooking flour. Do you know Matthew Perry ended up in rehab again because of that? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have a cookie baking party and realize half way through the evening you’ve been eating heroin? I was mortified.”
“This is so unfair!” she cried. Then she threw herself on the ground and held her breathe until she passed out. I took a case of Smuckers jam (she had, like, six of them), put a leash on the possum – and I was on my way.
I left a note on her refrigerator that said, “Young lady, you’re grounded until this house is cleaned up. Don’t make me come back here and take away your cigarettes!”
I’m going to let some time pass. I need to cool down. I’m getting more and more angry just thinking about it. I think I’ll take the possum out for a walk. That should relax me.
Love ya like a heroin cookie on an otherwise boring Wednesday night,