How Many Mothers Does It Take To Drive You Crazy?

It’s said that you never understand your mother until you become a mother yourself. Unless you count my helicopter parenting of my dog in 1990 I never became a mother. At least not the kind that wasn’t followed by the F word.

I grew up in Maryland, south of the Bacon-Dixon Line as my sister Lindy used to call it, and you don’t know humiliation as a teenager in the suburbs until you’re at the mall and your French mom yells across a crowded store, “Suzeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, we finally found a brassiere small eeeeenough for you.”  A French mom, just what every teenager needs to match her acne and double A cup bra.

Although Mom speaks English, it’s not her first language so some words still elude her:

MOM: If I'd had stinking balls I would have thrown zem at zose people.
ME: You mean a stink bomb?
MOM: Oui mon Dieu, STINKING BALLS.

and...

ME: How are you this morning?
MOM: Not gude, I was reaching for somesing and injured my rotating cup.
ME: You have a cup that rotates?
MOM: Don’t you know anysing about anatomy?

And she doesn’t understand idioms at all. At my 8th birthday party she told my little friends that “You can’t have your cake and eat it too” and they all burst into tears.

Talking on the phone with her requires enormous concentration and math skills. Recently she told me that "Things haven't been this bad since the end of the Civil War.” Apparently she's older than I thought. She’s lied about her age for so long that I’m now older than she is. She said she has a doctor's appointment on Dec 13, 1912. She'd better push that appointment up BECAUSE OH MY GOD HOW IS SHE STILL ALIVE?

When she makes her yearly pilgrimage from Paris to Los Angeles the first thing Mom notices is what's wrong with my hair; the first thing Mom doesn’t notice is my rage. She can never open her luggage upon arrival, the key is missing, lost, or stolen by the customs inspectors trying to make off with her 32 year-old house dress. Then she sighs and when my mother sighs, it's the sigh of a thousand failures, which the French perfected. She’s such an expert at it that once in a hotel room she sighed so loudly she inadvertently ordered room service. I always joke that I'm getting my mother a silver lining for her birthday. Really not a joke.

She stays six weeks with my sister and two weeks with me and Lindy and I live in the same city. She demands so much attention that my friends can’t reach me as I’m basically incommunicado, which is Latin for Close to a Nervous Breakdown. I’m not my mother’s favorite child, as you might have figured out by now. I figured it out after she gave me her wedding gown for my own marriage and she knows full well I look terrible in maternity clothes. I brought out my baby scrapbook one day and in a group picture from kindergarten asked Mom to pick me out. Apparently I was a Chinese kid

But the irritation goes both ways. Whereas I can sit in a chair for four days straight, mom can't sit still for two minutes. She starts dinner. At 11 am. She has this bad habit of opening a window wherever she is: a car, your home, in every room. Needless to say I'm afraid to fly with her. She snores as rhythmically as a metronome so it's really too bad I don't play a musical instrument. She always calls me by my sister's name during phone calls but when we hang up I make sure to say, "Goodbye Dad." And Mom, if you’re reading this, you can’t get Dad’s military pay because he’s been dead for ten years so NO I CAN'T CALL HIM FOR YOU.

I make fun of my mom a lot. In my act, on the Internet, and in real life. And the person who laughs the loudest is my mom. She’s a good sport about it all and I know she enjoys the attention. But it has occurred to me the reason she laughs is she probably doesn’t understand my jokes and wants to throw some stinking balls at my head.

The 1 Question I've Never Been Asked

I did many interviews for my book, including one for author Jess Riley and this one, for author Adam Avitable. Adam asked me something that in over 80 career interviews I've never been asked. Which one of these 9 questions do you think it was?

1. Your book was a fascinating collection of chance celebrity encounters, stories about friends, and scandalous secrets. I guess my question is, how many sex tapes have you participated in?

I did two with a boyfriend in NY. We broke up after three years and all I could think about were those tapes. He was well known, although not in show business, and was a control freak. He routinely asked me to get his name tattooed on my left breast. This was years before Pam Anderson, Johnny Depp, and Angelina Jolie started marking up their bodies with the names of their love interests. My ex was ahead of the white trash times.

He and I are still friends and a few years ago I asked him if I could have my two tapes back, so I could destroy them.

“Two? Is that how many you think we did?”
“Well, uh, yeah.”
“You never could figure out when the red light was on.”

Which explains a lot about my show business career. And no, I didn’t tattoo his name on my left boob. I honestly don’t recognize the name that’s on there now.

2. How do you think your life would have changed if you had won the Star Search competition that you actually lost to Kermit Apio?

There were so many more people to battle before you got to the top tier of that show. Kermit was knocked out in the next round, which meant he wasn’t funny enough to win a second time. Which further cemented my belief that the judge who was so mean to me made sure I didn’t win my round because he knew I would have gone on to win. So in my version I would have won the second round, would now be spit-shining two Oscars, and be married to Ryan Gosling.

3. Do you think that there are any true, great celebrities anymore? What has reality TV done to the world of entertainment?

George Clooney is a great celebrity. So are Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts. I Googled the greatest celebrities of all time and some guy had made a list on IMDb.com that included John Ratzenberger and Hilary Duff so my list might be off a little.

Reality TV has given everyday people the hope that they too can be on TV without having an ounce of talent. You no longer have to be thin, attractive or intelligent to be famous. So it’s made us all feel better about ourselves.

4. Your book is about your compulsion to go up and talk to celebrities. Has anyone ever done that to you?

About five years ago I was in a frozen yogurt shop and a woman stopped at my table and said, “OHMYGODYOU’RESUZYSORO.” I didn’t recognize her and asked where we’d met. She’d taken a standup comedy class and her teacher had taped me off a TV show and asked her to do my act for her final exam.

She’s probably still doing it.

5. I was surprised to see the serious turn of the book when you talked about the Hartman family. What made you decide to include that chapter among all the gossip and humor?

I loved Brynn and Phil and knew Brynn’s vilification in the press was never going to go away. At the same time I took the opportunity to screw the National Enquirer and risked that people who read what I did didn’t hate me for it. Brynn was a phenomenal friend to me, as was Phil, but I felt her side of the story needed to be told. One of their children wrote and thanked me for trying to preserve their mother’s name in spite of what she did. It was, obviously, a terrible time.

6. Name the top three celebrities who, if you saw them, you would run in the opposite direction. Why?

There aren’t any. I once made Flavor Flav take a picture with me. FLAVOR FLAV.

7. What does your sister think of the book?

She loved it but it depressed her because she forgot what a great life she used to have. And that she could have been Mrs. Johnny Carson. Snooze you lose.

8. If they made a movie version of this book, who would play you if you could cast anyone, dead or alive? Who would probably get cast instead?

If I cast: Amy Poehler
If Hollywood cast: Anne Hathaway
If mommies cast: Melissa McCarthy
If daddies cast: Sophia Vergara

9. Other than your book, what's your favorite book written in the last year?

Yours.

My Book Is Free! For 3 Days Only!

If you have a Kindle, or have downloaded the free Kindle app for either your PC or Mac, (or tablet or phone or any other device I don't own) you can get my book, Celebrity sTalker, for free. It's available from Friday, March 1 to Sunday, March 3rd.

And if you want to read an excerpt, the post before this one has my run-in with Sly Stallone and my evil, but in great shape sister, Lindy.

Get the book here.

An Excerpt From My Book, Celebrity sTalker

This is from the chapter on Sly Stallone: No Wonder I Never Wanted An Easy-Bake Oven.

I’m not in great shape. The only time anyone wrote “lots of abs” next to my name was in my attendance report from high school. So I joined a gym. You can’t not join a gym in Los Angeles. The authorities will find out and suddenly you’re on a billboard that says Got Fat?

So I Got Serious and hired a trainer, or rather hired the one that Bally’s Gym assigned to me. He'd been Mr. Bulgaria twice; Mr. Northern California in the early 90s and wrote three fitness books, which was three more than I'd written. I felt sorry for him; his business card was an unevenly sliced-up piece of Xerox paper. He was earnest and committed, probably had a family waiting in a cramped one-bedroom apartment somewhere in Koreatown, expecting him to put borscht on the table. He had that sad, vacant look that people who do not ever expect to catch up with life have. I have the same expression after I’ve had sex.

Mr. Bulgaria loved working out and assumed I did also because why else would I be at the gym?

Sidebar: Cute guys, the smoothie bar and cute guys. Oh yes, and cute guys.

I don’t understand why people love to sweat. “It gets out all the toxins.” If there are toxins leaking out of any part of me it means my alcohol levels are dangerously low so point me in the direction of a martini.

Maybe I’d love working out if I enjoyed eating. Then there would be a goal, to lose weight or keep a steady weight. But I hate eating even more than I hate working out. Hand me a pill marked LUNCH and I’m done until I’m handed a pill marked DINNER. Give me a purple drink like the one in the movie Barbarella. Jane Fonda drinks it when she wakes up from a hundred and fifty-four hour nap. Sounds like a perfect place to live; you drink your meals and get to nap for six days in a row. That movie was made in 1963 so apparently the future has let us down. And by us I mean me.

I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try the food at the trendy new restaurant in Who Cares, Connecticut. I lived with a man who used to drive me crazy because while we were eating breakfast he’d ask me what we should do for lunch. At lunch, he’d ask me what we should do for dinner. At dinner, he’d ask me what we should do for breakfast. No, we’re not still together, why do you ask?

When I do manage to eat something I inhale the whole thing and am then surprised to discover that it *serves 4.* Four what, anorexics? I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Ina Garten move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.

The only machine I used regularly at the gym was the water fountain but I kept going because of the cute guys. And the smoothie bar. And oh yes, the cute guys. But sometime in the last few years the cute boys emigrated to marriage and the gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorts me through them as if he’s afraid I'll stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.

The gym rat in our family is my sister Lindy, who once graced the cover of Muscle and Fitness magazine. Her nickname in college was The Body. My nickname in college was Can You Introduce Me to Your Sister. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s always telling me I don’t work out enough, that I don’t do enough aerobics. Like getting up from the couch and lying back down twenty times a night isn’t aerobic. Every time we have an earthquake I grab my Shake Weight so as to maximize the effects of the shifting tectonic plates. If that’s not dedication to exercise then I don’t know what is.

“How do I look in this bathing suit?” I once asked her.

“You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she saw me in shorts and said, “You look terrific; not like you did in that bathing suit.”

As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever the hell the deltoid goes...

(...continued in book)

When It's Too Painful To Talk About

My sister Lindy got up at 7 a.m., like she does every day. She walked into the living room and opened the curtains then slowly made her way to the dining room to open those curtains.

A pair of doves nest in a fern my sister has hanging on her balcony. A bright green and beautifully lush fern. Twice a year the female lays eggs in it. She sits on them and waits for the male to return with food. If the male thinks she's in any danger, he flies quickly to the balcony railing to stand guard. I've seen him come zooming in from out of the blue if I stare too long up at the nest. They know my sister. They don't know me.

The doves have been coming to her balcony for many, many years. Lindy thinks they bring her good luck and is always excited when they finally appear. One year they didn't come, they'd gone to a nearby apartment instead. Lindy spent that year waiting for bad luck to strike. It didn't. But she held vigil anyway. The doves always have two or three babies and they hop around the balcony before they finally take flight as young adults.

The doves aren't perturbed by my sister watering her plants. They even tolerate her dog Yoshi, who is so fat he'd have a hard time lifting his head to locate them.

When Lindy opened the dining room curtains on Friday morning she saw a man lying on the terrace outside her third floor condo and thought, “How weird that Mel is trying to get some sun this early in the morning.”

And then she saw the blood.

She was in such shock she called the front desk instead of 911.

They called 911.

Mel had thrown himself off his 10th floor balcony and landed in front of Lindy's dining room windows.

Two days before National Suicide Prevention Week.

Lindy cried and cried and when the police came, and spent four hours at the scene, they suggested tenants talk to counselors. Others, as it turned out, also saw Mel lying on the terrace.

This happened last Friday. I didn’t hear about it until yesterday. My sister is like my late father, and my mother. They are not divulgers of painful feelings. For them, it happens and then you move on. For me, it happens and then you dwell on it for years.

A therapist who lives in her building opened her doors to all the residents. Lindy went. The therapist diagnosed her with PTSD. A tenant gave her some Klonopin. She's been on it since the suicide.

Lindy told me this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. That she discovered the body of a friend who died violently. I believe her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”
"Mel wasn't liked in the building. He made trouble for the condo association. They called him a dissident. I liked him and everyone knew that."

Lindy likes everyone.

“People are avoiding me; I ended up not wanting to tell everyone else.”
“I’m not everyone else. I’m your sister.”

Silence.

Like I said, everyone in my family leans towards taciturn in events of the heart.

Mel left a suicide note. He was bipolar. He was 77. He was divorced. His wife lived in the same building, but in a different apartment.

The day that Mel jumped the doves left their nest. Three days went by and they didn’t return. Lindy anxiously checked the fern for signs of their slim grey tail feathers, which stuck out from the fern when they were in residence.

Nothing.

On Tuesday Lindy got up on a stool to look inside the nest. That's how convinced she was they were still there. There was a lone egg in the fern. Cracked open. The baby dove lay in the jaws of the broken shell.

Dead.

Working Out Means Never Having To Say No Dessert For Me

Before I bought a scale I used to walk to the gym, weigh myself and then hike, and I use the word hike loosely here, the three blocks home. In my defense, the walk back was uphill. So a few years ago I decided to get serious and hire a trainer, or rather hire the one that Bally’s Gym assigned to me. He'd been Mr. Bulgaria twice, Mr. Northern California in the early 90’s and had written three fitness books, which was three more than I'd written. I felt sorry for him; his business card was an unevenly scissored piece of Xerox paper. He was earnest and committed and I knew he had a family waiting in a cramped one-bedroom apartment somewhere in Koreatown expecting him to put borscht on the table. He had that sad, vacant look that people who do not ever expect to catch up with life have.

I hate working out but I hate eating even more. I don’t like food. Hand me a pill called LUNCH and leave me alone. I refuse to cook. If you don’t want to impress me, invite me out for dinner and then ask me where we should go, what we should eat and what we should order. Then as we’re eating, ask me how my Sea Bass is, or if I want to try your Carpaccio or split a dessert. Just so we’re clear, I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try out new food at the trendy new restaurant in Who Cares, New Jersey. I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Ina Garten move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.

I only kept going to the gym because there were cute guys there. But sometime in the last two years my gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorted me through them as if he was afraid I'd stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.

The gym rat in our family is my sister, who once graced the cover of Muscle & Fitness Magazine. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s the kind of person who you'll ask, “How do I look in this bathing suit?” and she’ll say, “You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she sees you in shorts and says, “Gee, you really look great; not like you did in that bathing suit.” She got so addicted to exercise that she had to join a 12-step program. I don’t think it worked because now she’s up to 27 steps. As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever-the-fuck the deltoid goes.

I went to World Gym in Venice with her one day many years ago. Arnold Schwarzenegger owned it then and Stallone hung out there a lot. I was having a rough time in the business and my sister, who was friendly with both Arnold and Sly, had told them about my struggle. Sly was there that day and when she introduced me to him, he had that crooked half-smile going on and came towards me with his arms outstretched. “Aaaayyy, somebody needs a hug.” His bodyguards surrounded us and Sly hugged me like I owed him money. I knew he had had a rough ride in Hollywood before Rocky hit and I knew he understood where I was in my slide into artistic hell.

“Aaaayyy, don’t give up, it can happen to you,” Sly said. I’ve never given up because of that.

Sly and his body guards left and my sister and I began to work out in earnest. She did anyway, I was staring into space and wondering if Sly noticed that I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows. I watched as she admired her calves. Inspected them as if they had USDA stamped on them and were going to market in a refrigerated truck. A line formed. Now other people were inspecting her calves. Suddenly one of these voyeurs took time out from his busy schedule of ogling her and eyed me suspiciously.
“What’s that on the back of your arm?” he asked.
“A triceps?”
“Well,” he continued, “have a doctor look at it; it might be cancer.”


This was a repost from 2006. It was my 11th post! But it has a Sly Stallone anecdote that endeared me to the man for life. I'm so sad for him and Sasha and everyone who knew and loved Sage.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #101

These 2 Bentleys are parked near my sister Lindy's car in the underground garage in her building. Every time she and I exit the door that leads to the garage and someone comes out after us, she turns to them and says, "Love your Bentleys." And the people always respond, "Those aren't my cars."

Then she laughs and they laugh while secretly taking out their iPhones and dialing 911. Lindy's been doing it for months and sometimes I'm there to witness the dementia first hand.

TODAY SHE SAID IT TO A GUY AND HE SAID THANK YOU AND WENT TO THE FIRST CAR AND STUCK THE KEY IN THE LOCK AND OPENED THE DOOR.

Lindy turned to me and said, "I was bound to find the owner eventually."

Thank God she doesn't play poker.

25 Things You Didn't Know About Me

1. I've never been to a costume party and if you go to them it's doubtful we'll ever be friends.

2. I have a titanium bar in my back and no it's not stocked with alcohol.

3. My favorite movie is Pillow Talk with Doris Day and Rock Hudson.

4. I left home when I was 17 but would have left earlier if my parents weren't such MEAN ASSHOLES.

5. My best friend is gay and we've been estranged 3 times yet always wander back into each other's lives. It goes without saying that we're both very stubborn.

6. I speak and read French yet got D's in French in high school and my first year of college. As you can imagine this went over very well with my mother, who's French, and my father, who was Hitler.

7. I've been engaged 3 times but was only in love once and not to any of the men I was engaged to.

8. I prefer going to the movies by myself. Although I used to put my Yorkie in my purse and take him along. Mainly because he didn't talk during the movie.

9. I have one sister and have had 4 stepbrothers and 1 stepsister.

10. There are only 2 people who make me laugh. One is my friend Jane in New York and one is my sister.

11. If I can come up with 25 things for this list I'll be amazed.

12. I never had any female friends who didn't work until I met bloggers.

13. I don't like diamonds.

14. All of my dishes are black and white but in different patterns.

15. Number 14 is kind of dumb for a list of 25 things you didn't know about me. I mean seriously, who cares what kind of dishes I have?

16. I believe in reincarnation.

17. I can't believe some bloggers make a '100 Things You Didn't Know About Me' TAB.

18. I love to travel. The more exotic the place, the better.

19. I never wanted my own children but dated 4 men who had kids. And I loved them all. The kids, I mean.

20. I've been performing since I was 14 and performing professionally since I was 15.

21. My favorite activity is getting into bed and reading. This explains why I have no boyfriend.

22. Don't ask me for my opinion because I'll tell you the truth.

23. I'm a member of SAG and AFTRA.

24. I have terrible taste in men. If there's an asshole on the loose, I'll find him.

25. I'm a great cook.

BONUS 26. After bitching and moaning I'm now on Facebook.

How To Pack Your Memories So You'll See Them Again

Part of the nightmare of moving is finding things stuffed into other things which in turn leads you to finding other things that you forgot you had.  Ultimately you realize you have too many things.

And that your vocabulary needs work if you can't find a synonym for the word 'things.'

I found all these pictures hidden in an album I forgot I had. Because I have too many things.

Exhibits A through D:

A. My sister and I appeared in our hometown newspaper holding balls. Prophetic.

B. Then my sister decided to grow her cheeks in earnest:

C.  This is one of a handful of pictures from a time when my hair was not stick straight. I was in the 9th grade and can't believe I thought this looked good. I'm hoping I was drunk during this era, which would also explain my math grades:

D. Lindy and I have avoided being in weddings our entire lives. The ugly dresses, the expensive gifts to a bride and groom who you'll lose touch with in 6 years and who will ultimately divorce after one of them sleeps with the babysitter. Not to mention no one can afford lobster at their reception.

But this was the one and only nuptials we agreed to participate in. Our father's 4th wedding. And that was because he paid our airfare. And wrote us each a check. And promised me a new car if I didn't swear.

I still have the same old car.

Could my Dad look any more grim?

This Is Why My Sister Never Lends Me Money

If you have a younger sister you know your only job in life is to torture her. My sister Lindy used to be younger than me but as I age she becomes older and older as I bask in the denial of The Vain and The Botoxed.

This is Johann, one of our relatives on my Dad's side. I've been telling my sister since she was a zygote that I often get pictures of her and Johann confused when I go through our photo albums:




This is a picture of Lindy when she was 2 and a half. It's because of this photograph that I keep telling her she's adopted because we don't have any little man trolls on either side of our family:

God paid me back for all my emotional abuse by making her look like this when she was 13:

And like this when she was 38:

God is a spiteful man. Sorry feminists, but...

...MOST DEFINITELY A MAN.

Not The One With Rock Hudson And Doris Day

When my sister Lindy first started modeling in New York she got a lot of different jobs. But when she booked her first cover shoot I was very proud of her even though I'd never heard of the magazine.

She called our Dad, who was living in Florida, and excitedly told him she had been chosen to do not one but two covers for a magazine called Pillow Talk. (not this one) She gave him the date the first one would hit newstands and then forgot all about it.

The day the magazine came out Lindy's agent called to tell her and she ran to the nearest kiosk. She came home and waved it in my face and said OH NO OH NO OH NO!!! I'd never seen her so excited.

But it wasn't exactly excitement.

It was more dread.

And fear.

Of the loss of her inheritance:
By the time she called Dad to say the magazine was NOT repeat NOT repeat NOT EVER coming out he had already bought it.

Thank God the next month they only used her body:


End of chat.

Ex-Boyfriends And Small Dogs Are Both Mental

This picture was taken back in the early 80's, here in California. I had been invited to an ex-boyfriend's house to meet his new girlfriend because men actually think that's something their ex-girlfriends want to do.

And I did.

A chance to judge, to mock, to talk about it later with anyone I could get on the phone, are you kidding me? WHEN DO WE LEAVE?

I was in town from New York and had my dog Kiko with me. My ex had always preferred the dog to me so what else is new.

Kiko loved anything that was as small as he was and breathed. He almost lost his eyes millions of times because he could not resist a cat. Even when they hissed at him, bared their teeth and lifted a paw to strike, Kiko would just look at me plaintively. He was like that kid at the park who can't find anyone to play with.

So we're at the ex's and someone had a baby with them. A tiny, breathing baby. So naturally Kiko went over to say hello.

I interrupt this broadcast for breaking 80's fashion news.

See the inset below of my sister's foot in those white shoes? (The actual picture is the last one in this post) Those sandals were from Giorgio of Beverly Hills. At the time they cost $198, which means they would cost about $895 today. I was with Lindy when she bought them, days before the visit with my ex, and Giorgio's, like many great boutiques, served champagne to their customers as they shopped. Alcohol and shopping go really well together. As do bankruptcy and a low FICO score.I remembered that Lindy had eventually grown tired of the shoes and given them to me. She also did this with an actor named Jack Scalia. As you can see, he was much cuter than the shoes.

It's hard to visualize but those little oval things popping up from the shoe were gold leaves. I emailed Lindy the pictures and asked her if she remembered the shoes. This is what she wrote back:

Of course I remember those shoes!!!! I just forgot that I had given them to you. You're right- they were from Giorgio's because in those days I only shopped in Beverly Hills, had a maid, had facials every ten seconds and full-served my gas tank! Those WERE the days. Did I mention that I had membership to about 1700 gyms and did Karen Voight's class every day which cost more that gym membership anywhere in L.A. in those days?

I only started saving $ when I realized that I wasn't going to live forever.

This is the difference between us. I'm not going to live forever so I double-up on my shopping. This might explain why my sister is richer than I am. But I'll be better dressed in the casket. Stop groaning, you know you were thinking the same thing.

Anyway, end of fashion news, back to the baby and Kiko. The baby, like a cat, was not amused by my dog and started pounding on his head. Babies are mean.

It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday!

When I was a kid I asked my parents over and over if there was any possibility that we could be Jewish. I have no idea why I asked them but I really wanted to be Jewish. And adopted. Surely these two cretins could not be my biological parents.

Religion was not a big deal in our house. Mom dragged me and Lindy to mass every Sunday where I sat and muttered under my breath how much I hated her church.

She wanted to become a nun when she was 17 and Dad was an alter boy at his church. Although in the above picture he looks like an alter man.

Religion didn't stick on any of us. I left home at 17 and that was the end of all church going activities in our family. Lindy got out of it 2 years earlier THANKS TO ME. Today we can't even sit in a church and listen without eye rolling each other. We wish people got married at bars. Or maybe a nice seafood restaurant down by the beach.

Dad always insisted that his side of the family was Scottish. No Jews.

Our Dad was a notorious pack rat. It took me 3 years to wade through his papers and possessions after he died. I removed this book from the apartment in Florida. It looked old so I figured I should take it. You know, so I could start my own hoarding traditions. The book is called Life of Washington by the Hon. J.T. Headley.

It was published in 1860, the year I was born. Inside is the name Walter Kummerer, neatly and artistically written in black ink. From something called an inkwell, for all you Justin Bieber fans.

After I found the book I asked my mother if she remembered the last name of my grandmother. She replied that it was Kauffman. I said I thought Dad's mom was Scottish but mom insisted on the name Kauffman.

So I went through our family tree and discovered that my great, great, great grandmother was named Kauffman. Her daughter married a Kummerer and their daughter married a Scot.

So my mom was right. Only she got the last name of my grandmother wrong. How did she know the great, great, great grandmother's name but not the immediate grandmother's name?

As everyone who reads me knows by now, I believe in reincarnation. I believe Mom remembered the name because she was part of that family in a former life. There is no other explanation. I'd say she had a great memory but she recently went to Greece and gave me the wrong departure date. And arrival back in Paris date. And then blamed it all on me.

When I was 5 years old I used to say that I wanted to go to California to see Cindy and Cincy. My parents always asked me who they were and I would always reply: Cindy and Cincy. Like my parents were the two dumbest people in the world.

While my Dad was alive I looked over our family tree one evening and discovered that a woman named Cinzie, real name Christina, had been in our family and died in the early 1900's. I clearly met her on the other side. Because who in the hell ever heard of someone named Cinzie?

I dedicate this Friday's Bite Me post to organized religion because I never knew I was part Jewish and I'm sure it's the Pope's fault.

End of chat.

My Sister And I Were Destined For Fame?

Our parents pimped us out at a very young age. In a newspaper. And people wonder how we both ended up in rehab, or as I like to refer to it, show business.

How did my mother get that roll of hair on my sister and why DID SHE GET ALL THE ATTENTION GROWING UP?

Thank God I was funny. And made a living off it. Did my sister make money off her curly FUCKING hair? NO.

How You Can Tell If A Dog Likes You

This is Boris the Bernese Mountain Dog. He weighs 120 pounds even though his owner says he weighs 80 pounds. Why lie about how much your dog weighs? It's not like Boris is in Weight Watcher's and hoping to eventually squeeze into a size 4.He loves my sister so much that when she runs into Boris and his owners, Boris breaks away and runs straight for Lindy, raises up on his hind legs and with his full 6 foot frame tries to knock her over. She thinks it's funny. I think it's a lawsuit.

If Boris likes you he'll walk up from behind and shove his snout in between your legs. He uses you like a cheap revolving door. If he were wearing a saddle I could see the advantage in this action but instead? I think it's a lawsuit.

Boris is as gentle as a lamb, although that's an expression no one can really verify as most of us did not grow up with a lamb and for all we know lambs are nasty, evil little biters. That nursery rhyme about Mary, "He followed her to school one day, school one day, school one day" should have been a tip off that he was trouble. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE MARY THE LAMB IS LOOSE. I don't know why we hide the truth from kids. One day they're going to grow up and try to pet a lamb and probably die.

After I spent a few hours at my sister's, Boris stuck his snout in between my legs and tried to get through. It was the closest I'd been to sex in a while so I didn't really mind. I just hope he used protection.

My foot. His paw. My foot is the one on the left.

Do You Need A Facelift?

This is one of the easiest ways to determine whether or not you need a face lift and what you'll look like after one. I've used my sister Lindy as the subject because it's always appropriate to humiliate members of your family in a small venue like the Internet.

While sitting up look at yourself in a hand mirror.

Then lie down on your back and look at yourself again in the same mirror.

Lindy was so depressed after she saw these results she asked me if I had a scalpel on me.

Like I'd do her before me. So selfish.

And if you can't tell the difference between the two then get your eyes checked. Seriously. Now. On a Sunday. Hurry.

Going Down To Santa Monica For More Of This

Look at my mother's face. She had just completed a 24 hour meltdown at Lindy's. Underneath her sunglasses my sister is rolling her eyes at me. Plus she's wearing that size 2 slash 6 dress that is 26 years old and fit her like a glove.

My mother refused to eat or talk, preferring instead to stare balefully at the camera while keeping a death grip on Yoshi's leash. He is underneath the table saying 10 Hail Mary's and 10 Our Father's.
My sister has her Madonna arms out on display. She does that to torture me. It always works, especially when the fat on my upper underarm swings back and forth and hits her in the face.

They got back to Santa Monica and my mother went straight into the kitchen, saying she was starved. They both went to bed with their sunglasses on.

End of chat.