Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Vive La France, But Not In August

My mother is arriving from Paris in a few weeks and I’ll have to face the same questions Americans ask me when they find out I have a French mother. So here’s my list of answers:

1. I’m half French and half American but when I go to France I just treat myself like shit.
2. The French do not hate Americans, they hate everyone.
3. My mother does shave her armpits, sometimes twice a day.
4. She also bathes, sometimes twice a year.
5. Juicy Couture is not real couture. Only the French government can hand out that title.
6. The French think fast food is a one hour lunch.
7. They take a month’s vacation and if you didn’t know that before you booked your trip for August, the vacation month of France for the last zillion years, then stop using Travelocity.
8. The French gave us The Statue of Liberty, which is 151 feet tall. The Americans gave the French a replica of the Statue, which is 35 feet tall.
9. The French are more generous than the Americans.
10. The structural engineer of the Statue of Liberty was Gustav Eiffel.
11. When it was being built, the French hated the Eiffel Tower.
12. The French don’t speak English when Americans address them in English because they find it rude that Americans assume their language is more universal than the French language.
13. English is the Universal language of the world.
14. If you’re from a red state and still referring to French Fries as Freedom Fries then you need to book a ticket on Travelocity and go home, now.
15. The accent never goes away, no matter how much your children wish it would have when we were teenagers.
16. The word Boutique is not pronounced Boteek.
17. “Pardon My French” is an expression the British invented because they thought the French were vulgar and sex-obsessed. I can only vouch for sex-obsessed.
18. During certain wars when the French were accused of not letting planes fly over or under or around or beside their country, it’s because they hate everyone.
19. Or it was during the month of August and no one was around to give their permission.
20. End of Chat

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Step Away from the Celebrities

I can’t stop talking to celebrities. It's harder than when I gave up cigarettes and that took me two years and twenty pounds.

Most of them start out thinking they know me because I’m very affable, very non stalkerish, like I've known them all my life. Half of them are pleasant and the other half can hardly wait for me to walk away. Okay, probably all of them can hardly wait for that.

I always say the wrong thing when I open my mouth yet it sadly doesn’t stop me from doing it again. I told Kathy Baker that I thought she was a brilliant actress and I watched everything she did and that I missed Picket Fences and seeing her on TV and she said she was on Boston Public.

Dr. Joyce Brothers once honked her horn at me and asked for directions. God knows where she ended up since after I told her what a fan I was and wouldn’t shut up; she stepped on the gas and ran a red light. And for the record, I’m not a fan of Dr. Joyce Brothers, I don't even think she's a celebrity and I'm unclear as to whether or not she's still alive.

I met Mick Jagger when the Stones were on tour in Paris. My sister was dating Ron Wood (the guitarist who replaced Brian Jones) at the time and I was starring in a cabaret show. Every night they were in town, I would head over to their hotel after my show to meet my sister. I was a big Jagger fan and I was dying to meet (have sex with) him. One night I saw him walking towards me. I met him half way and we both stopped. He smiled and I asked him where the ladies room was.

I met Oprah on the set of a movie I was filming here in LA and bored her to distraction with a tale of how male standups never let me watch her show in the condos we had to share on the road. Later on, when we were all on set, I looked at her and she waved at me. I turned around to see who she was waving at but there was no one there. I looked at her again and she waved again and once more I looked behind me. There was no one there. I looked back at Oprah and she waved and pointed to me over and over. Finally I got it and waved back. Lame a Go Go.

Believe me, I don’t start out thinking I’m going to talk to these people but somehow, like a heroin addiction, it overtakes me and suddenly I’m tying off and shooting up inane conversation.

I was down in Malibu one day with a friend and the stalkerazzi were following Pam Anderson. She and her children went into the Cross Creek pet shop and the photogs all huddled outside like piranhas, waiting for her to come out. My friend and I ducked into the book store next door since we wanted to get a look at her. When she finally emerged, the paparazzi went ape shit and I lost it. I ran outside waving my arms and screaming at them to leave her alone, that she was with her kids and to just stay away from her. Pam (like I know her) jumped in her SUV, threw it into reverse and sped off while I was still yelling. After she got away I went back into the book store to retrieve my friend.
“Those assholes, they scared her half to death.”
“Uhhh Suzy? I think she was more afraid of you.”

End of chat.

Monday, September 18, 2006

I'm A Perfect 10

After moving to Hollywood from New York I found a rental in a 1960’s era building with the pool in the middle and the neighbors all fanned out in a voyeur’s circle. Exactly like Melrose Place but without the sex.

Now I’m not one of those people who has to know what my neighbors are up to (I’m lying) so I only open my curtains to let in the sun. (Lying again) I made management put a screen on my front door so I could keep it open and let a breeze in. (My DKNY pants are on fire) I did not miss New York, where people kept their doors closed or slammed them in your face.

But like New York, I could walk anywhere in my neighborhood and do all my errands, which was a plus. I went to my local supermarket one day and while standing in the check out line eyeing the candy and pretending not to read The Enquirer, I found my favorite, a Snickers bar. I reached for it only to discover that it was hard as a rock. I reached for the one behind it and it too was hard as a rock. Maybe Corporate Snickers had not let Los Angeles Snickers know that the preferred mode of eating them was when they were edible. I asked the cashier if they had any more.
“What’s wrong with those?" she asked.
I kept my Big New York Sarcastic Mouth shut and bought one anyway. I unwrapped it in the car and discovered that parts of the chocolate had discolored to a grayish brown. I called my sister.
“Why are the Snickers bars at the supermarket hard as a rock and discolored?”
“Because they sit there forever. And why on earth would you eat one of those?”
“I love them.”
“We don’t eat those here. I mean, do you want to die?”
“I had a craving for chocolate.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“I’m 5’5”, that’s totally normal.”
“Maybe on Planet Jumbo, but not here in L.A.”
“That’s a size 8.”
“It used to be an 8, in the Midwest it’s now a (she whispered this part) twelve. Here in L.A. it’s still only a 10 but unless someone is referring to how you look overall, you do not EVER want to be a 10.”
“How much do you weigh?” I asked.
“Well I weigh more than you because my muscle mass weighs more than your fat. Once I measure your B.M.I. you’ll see what I mean.”
“I don’t have a BMW.”
“B.M. EYE: Body Mass Index. Don’t you read Muscle & Fitness?”
“Yeah, only I call it Vogue. So what do you buy when you go to the movies?”
“Bottled water.”
“Have people over?”
“Soy Delicious.”
“Have a craving for something sweet?”
“They should post signs at the airport, Attention: Now Entering a Food-Free Zone.”
“Very funny. Just up your protein intake, more chicken, fish, and edamame, you like edamame, right?”
“Unless that’s a fancy word for candy, I’m guessing no.”
“And no food after six p.m.”
“Sometimes I want something in the middle of the night.”
“Oh my God, you have NES.”
“Impossible, I haven’t had sex in months.”
“Nighttime Eating Syndrome. Just eat more protein and you’ll lose your sugar cravings.”
“I don’t want to lose them.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t. First I lose the sugar cravings and then what? I start voting Republican?” She hung up on me.

I now weigh 122. Well not really, but my sister reads this blog.

End of chat.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Plastic Surgery For Dummies

There are two kinds of New Yorkers who move to Los Angeles. One is dreaded and hates L.A. because there’s no winter/smoking/people who read. Then there’s me. I loved it because there were hot cars, hot homes, and most importantly, hot people everywhere. Not to mention my building had a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign. I know there are gorgeous people who live in other parts of the world but it couldn’t possibly compare to the pulchritude this town spits out like olive pits from a dirty martini. And Los Angeles was littered with car dealers to the stars, realtors to the stars and plastic surgeons for the rest of us. This is where Hot comes to die and the Mother Ship had called me home.

Even though no one in L.A. has actually had plastic surgery, is ever going to have it or would ever admit it if they did happen to have it while accidentally sleepwalking into downtown Beverly Hills for a three p.m. appointment, there sure are a lot of people ahead of me when I go for my Botox shots to my plastic surgeon’s office. I admit to having it because I love it and will be having it to the end of my life. As a matter of fact, I’ve booked my doctor for my embalming or autopsy, whichever comes first. I’m going to exit this world looking glorious, especially since I’m surely not going to feel that terrific.

I just don’t understood women who say they would never have plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure Janet Reno does not spend all her free time returning Jude Law’s calls or texting Colin Farrell. I once heard Cindy Crawford interviewed and she said that if she felt she needed it, she would have it. Cindy Crawford, not Broderick Crawford.

I wasn’t obsessed with my looks until a week after I moved to Los Angeles and was walking down the street with my mother. We ran into an old family friend who hadn’t seen us in many years. The friend looked at us and said, “Wow, you two could pass for sisters,” and I thought, ‘Man, how bad do I look?’

So I bought a jar of face cream that claimed to reduce the visible signs of aging and I tried it. It didn’t do much for my face but I used it on my 1998 Toyota and now it looks like a 2001. I knew then that the only thing that really reduces the visible signs of aging is death. And an upper and lower blepharoplasty.

When I had the eye job I told my friend Metia and she replied “You’re kidding, you can’t even tell.” Well, if you could tell, it wouldn’t be called an eye job; it would be called a lawsuit, now wouldn’t it?

Then I wanted my nose to tip up so I had a piece of my ear put in right above my nostrils. The manager of my Hollywood Hills apartment complex asked me if I could hear through my nose. So apparently there are some people here who don’t read. Restylane? Captique? Mesotherapy? Sculptra? Had it, had it, had it, need it.

A lot of people are afraid of surgery and I can understand that. When I had my eye-lift, the last thing I remember before I went under anesthesia was the doctor holding a scalpel, the fluorescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. I was mortified. Do you know how bad you look in fluorescent lights? The nurse asked me to count backwards from 100, giving me the illusion that I was going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile, no one makes it past 98. Why don’t they just make you count backwards from 2?

The truth is that I’d rather have plastic surgery than go to the gym with all the mutants oozing toxins out of their pores. If I see toxins coming out of any part of my body, bring me a margarita and check me into the Chateau Marmont.

Because my friends all know I’ve had plastic surgery, they ask me if they need it. Yes. Even if they don’t think they need it now, yes, they need it now. And for those of you stalwarts who think you don’t need anything done ever or are too afraid or too cheap I can only say this: When your rear grazes your ankles and you’re carrying your breasts around in a little red wagon and your husband is sleeping with the baby sitter, don’t come crying to me. Just remember that King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines and I’m sure he has male descendants out there somewhere. And I’m sure the hot ones ended up in Los Angeles. End of chat.