And The Winners Were!

The black and gold shoe was made by Prada and thus the hefty price tag of $750. The black and white shoe was made by Christian LaCroix and had a New York phone number next to it. When I called and asked for the price I was told that "We do not have that shoe in production."

So the correct answer to the contest was D. "This shoe cost $0 because the shoe is not in production." And if I may? HOW DUMB IS THAT TO PUT A SHOE IN A MAGAZINE, GIVE THE PHONE NUMBER AND THEN TELL A CUSTOMER YOU'RE NOT MAKING IT? Why not just SAY that in the photo caption? It's not like there's George Clooney on the other end of that phone number and that's the booby prize you get for making the call FOR NOTHING.

Okay, I'm back. So the following 8 people got the answer right:

1. Mrs. K

2. MJ

3. Karin

4. Pam

5. barbaraca

6. Kyddryn

7. Jen

8. kamewh

I put all the names in a bowl:
And picked the winner:

Congratulations Pam! Send me your snail mail so I can forward it to Eileen Cook, the author of Unpredictable. She will autograph a copy and send it out to you.

End of chat.

Prada Christian LaCroix Eileen Cook Unpredictable

Another Free Giveaway Contest!

The winner of this contest receives a free autographed copy of Eileen Cook's first novel, Unpredictable. I laughed out loud three times on the first page, to give you an idea of the funny level of this book.

So here is the contest. The first shoe pictured, the black and gold one, costs $750.00.

You have ONE guess for the second shoe. Again, if there are multiple winners, their names will be put into a hat and chosen at random.


How much does this black and white shoe cost?



A. This shoe cost $125.00
B. This shoe cost $65.00
C. This shoe cost $795.00
D. This shoe cost $0 because it's not in production

Good luck!

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

For someone who hasn't left the house in two months I sure have a lot to bitch about every Friday.

Would you be the slightest bit surprised to know that I took 1 Vicodin yesterday morning to go back to bed and then another 2 when I got up from my 67 year long nap? I believe in the addiction handbook that is what is referred to as 'Going Backwards.' However, I took nothing else all day so the tally for Thursday is 3. I'm not bragging, believe me.

I'm an addict. If I put it out there, I'm responsible for it so I'm putting it out there. My descent into hell with alcohol five years ago, which lasted a good six months before I pulled the plug on myself and went into rehab, started out with me as a social drinker. Then one day I wasn't. One day all the fat people were thin. Then they weren't. Why?

If you're addicted to anything, you're probably unhappy. You're either in a dead-end relationship, a fucked-up job, not where you want to be in life or in a place where you do ALL the emotional or physical work and the other person does NONE of it. Addiction is just the band-aid that covers up what is really wrong. It covers up what you're really addicted to, and it's always a behavior. When X does Y, I feel like eatingsmokingdrinkingshopping etc. Find out what that behavior is and you're halfway home. I figured out mine back in 2004. It's been a struggle ever since to avoid the people and situations that bring this up or I just have to deal with it outright, which is also difficult. But I try. Sometimes I fail. I'm not perfect. Well, I AM, but you know. Just with clothes and accessories.

I'm not interested in pot, gambling, eating (seriously, SOMEONE MAKE A PILL CALLED LUNCH AND DO ME A SOLID) or smoking. And when I'm not having surgery, I'm not interested in pills either. Smoking was also a big addiction for me and it took me two years to quit. If I even had one this morning I'd be up to a carton by this afternoon. And here's another news flash with addiction, you can't quit anything until YOU want to. That's why telling someone else to quit something doesn't work. If they don't want to, they aren't going to. Move on.

I fight codependence every day and man, talk about a bad gig that doesn't pay well. In case you don't know whether you're codependent or not, if you're constantly telling someone else how to live their life, how to do it better or anything similar, you're controlling and thus codependent. And you've probably got addictions.

I did figure out yesterday that I wasn't depressed from the Vikes, which is what I thought. I got myself into a situation with someone and that is what was bringing up all the old feelings that made me want to use. Once I realized what I was doing, I extricated myself from that person and was kind of surprised how much better I felt. Immediately. Being exposed to this person makes me want to control and the more you try and control something, not only the less it will happen your way, Melodie Beatty believes it KEEPS it from happening altogether, but you're also more likely to act out addictively. That would be me.

And now for really important news, there's a new SHOE CONTEST starting next week to give away the hilariously funny Unpredictable by Eileen Cook. Go to Amazon.com and read her reviews and you'll want in on this. I still haven't worked out the particulars, due to being all high and everything. KIDDING. But it involves shoes and I think that says enough.

End of chat.


Melody Beattie The Language of Letting Go Codependent No More Beyond Codependency Addiction

What's 9 Plus 1 You Say? Why That Would Be 10

Again, downsizing the Vicodin was no problem. Although I almost crapped out and took an extra one last night, I instead resorted to another addictive behavior. Eating. Peanut Butter and honey on Ritz crackers to be exact. A thousand of them although to be fair I lost count after the first 600.

Because that's the unpredictability of untreated 'issues.' They show up as addictive behavior. (It took me 4 therapists and 56 million dollars to get to that nugget) You quit one and will almost always pick up another. After I gave up drinking 5 years ago I spent a year going to AA meetings. Mostly judgemental Nazis bleating out rules and regs from the founder of AA's Big Book, Mr. Bill Wilson who, although he stopped drinking, was a raging sex addict his entire life. (To be fair, back in the 1930's the world didn't consider eating, shopping, smoking, sex or gambling as addictions) At AA people can't go 15 minutes without a cigarette and there's more coffee drunk at those meetings than in all of Seattle. And if I pointed out that they were still addicts they would say "But nooooooooooo, we're alcohol free!" There are 7 addictions. Not diseases. Addictions. And there's hardly a one of us who doesn't have something. And in case you think I outed Bill W.? He's listed all over the Internet with his real last name.

So last night I slept a blissful 3 hours. I'm sorry, did I say blissful? I meant psychotic. I 86'd the useless Darvocet and went back to my 2 Unisoms and 1 Xanax. I only took 2 Advil.
1 Vicodin
2 Unisoms
1 Xanax
2 Advil
________
6 TOTAL

So far so good. I dozed off at 2 AM and was up again at 5:00 AM. Then I took 2 more Advil and 1 more Xanax.

6 PREVIOUS TOTAL
2 Advil
1 Xanax
________
9 NEW TOTAL

By 8:30 AM I was still up and on the brink of murdering someone. Unfortunately my family doesn't live with me. I had a lunch today and had to be up at 11. Don't hate me that I get to rise at that hour; today was a hardship as I usually get up at 12:30. But I promise you that me crawling over my bed with my bare ass in the air and that yellow cast dragging behind me shredding my black satin sheet in its wake, all just to set the alarm clock, is truly a thing to behold and takes 15 minutes. I hope I don't have video surveillance in my bedroom because if I do, somewhere two guys in greasy overalls are laughing their asses off.

So, desperate to get even 2 more hours of sleep I took another Xanax.

9 PREVIOUS TOTAL
1 Xanax
________
10 ANOTHER NEW TOTAL AND CURRENT RECORD HOLDER

Then I checked my email while waiting for the sweet angels of slumber to club me into a coma and discovered an email from my lunch date. Who cancelled.

One of the books I keep next to my bed is The Language of Letting Go by Melody Beattie, who wrote Codependent No More. It's a book for anyone who wants to let go of extra baggage, bad habits, neuroses and our seemingly constant battle with life. The book is laid out one date at a time so you can read one entry a night to keep you on track. So I SWEAR June 5 says this: "Compulsive behaviors, sexually addictive behaviors, over-eating, chemical abuse, and addictive gambling are shame-based behaviors. If we participate in them, we will feel ashamed. It's inevitable. We need to watch out for addictive and other compulsive behaviors because those will immerse us in shame."

I had shame when I was over-indulging in cocktails but I have no shame with these pills. When they're gone, they're gone. And God help me that I don't pick up caffeine addiction. Kinda not what I need right now.

End of chat.

2 Minus 1 Plus 4 Plus 4 = 9

Okay, taking myself down to one Vicodin was no big deal. (Minus 1)

But I did have to take the doctor's dose of Advil, which for those of you who don't know what that is, it's 800 mg of Advil, 4 pills. It's what the doctor would prescribe if you actually had pain. I took them because I've been using the crutches and was all creaky. I can't believe my poor left knee and thigh have taken so much pressure the last few months. Sometimes I talk to them and tell them not to give up, that we're almost done with this nightmare. I'm not entirely clear that they listen to me. (Plus 4)

Nightime I got creative and thought I would not take the Xanax but take a (worthless) Darvocet along with the 2 Unisom. Two hours later and after trying to read 3 different books and watching 35 different TV shows I gave up and took the Xanax. Which led to sleep. (Plus 4)

So instead of taking 5 pills a day, I'm now up to 9. Well done, don't you think?

End of chat.

I'm Addicted To A Peeled Banana

I mean Vicodin. I don't want to say I'm addicted to Vicodin but I think I'm addicted to Vicodin. First clue out of the way. Moving on.

I was never a fan of this drug when I've taken it in the past. But that's because I was on a limited amount due to dental woes or buying if off the Druggertons, who live next door. Second clue to my addiction is my hypocritic oath, hereby sworn, because I totally trashed them a few posts back for being drug dealers. And expensive ones I might add.

When my doctor first gave me 60 with a refill for 60 I thought he might have confused them with Vitamin C. Who gives a patient access to 120 Vicodin? I mean besides Anna Nicole Smith's doctors. But never one to look a drug mule in the mouth, I didn't say anything. I barely even took them because I had no pain. And the first week post-op I was too busy trying not to throw up to even think about ingesting anything that would cause further expectoration.

But now, with just 27 days until the cast comes off I am seriously depressed. I find it hard to believe that only 2 months have passed since the surgery since it totally feels like 5 years. About 2 weeks ago I was in such dire straits that the only thing that would make me get out of the straits and onto the narrow was the Vicodin. And not just one at a time, like I had been taking, but 2 at a time. And then 6 hours of complete bliss would settle over me like a Thanksgiving dinner. I would prattle on and on about how great life was and I would work like an elf at Christmas on my final polish for my novel, which I'm now beginning to hate.

When the Vikes would finally wear off, I had the perfect pill cocktail to go to sleep. As a lifelong insomniac, (Seriously, I should have ticked off Cat Burglar on those questionnaires they make you fill out in high school about where your aptitude lies), I found a combo-platter that kept me out for 12 hours. 2 over the counter Unisom and .025 Xanax. That is the lowest dosage possible of Xanax but on the few occasions I've overindulged and taken 2 of those then the next day I wander the rooms of my apartment on my scooter, in a daze. So maybe that low dosage isn't as low as I think. And imagine how retarded I look dazed on a scooter.

I'm writing all this out because it's better to let the world in on the secret you're trying to hide. So in case someone else out there is reading this and has a similar problem, go ahead and taper off with me and then quit. If you need NA, go there. But TELL someone. I'm also doing it in case I die. KIDDING, PLEASE DON'T WRITE ME, I'M NOT HEATH LEDGER. And the Medical Examiner would be too embarrassed to print out what killed me and have to instead write in that I was the worst drug overdose he's seen in his 36 years of Medical Examining. Of course we're talking about Los Angeles so there's quite a few million people ahead of me on the pussy list of Drug Overdosees.

So I'm cutting down on both the Vikes and the Xanax as of today. I also have a stash of 24 Darvocet (Good Lord when you count your pills you might just as well call Tatum O'Neal and ask her if she has any leftover crack) but have no idea if they stave off depression or just make you sleepy. Because I'll say it again, I have no pain. I've never had any pain. So the last time I saw my doctor I mentioned that I was happy to have the Vikes and he said, "Because they make you feel good, right?" And therein lies the answer to why I got 120 Vicodins. He knew my situation was particular, living alone, second floor, etc. He KNEW I was going to plunge into a depression because of the long incarceration. He planned that all out and made sure I'd have something to keep me from heading the scooter down the stairs and into the deep end of the pool. As IF I could even do that and not end up in the shallow end.

So let the deprogramming begin.

End of chat.

Ready, Set, Read

You remember how I said there's always strange electronic activity around me? Friday night I was writing at my computer when I heard the weirdest sound. It was a cross between an alarm and the sound you hear at the end of an NBA quarter. I looked up from my computer and thought I saw this red rectangle shaped thing flash on my TV, which was on. I waited but it didn't happen again. I got up to see if it came from the TV but realized the TV was on mute. So that was enough to make me think that it was some earthquake warning that flashed. Those PSA's work even if your TV is on mute, don't they? DON'T THEY? So I spent the entire night waiting for an earthquake. Or tornado. Tornado? In any event, it's never happened before and probably won't again.

A few weeks back I said that No Reservations was a really shitty movie. I only said that because I hadn't seen 27 Dresses yet. This is what happens when Not Walking Meets On Demand and the person in question is losing her mind. That person being me, of course.

I don't know how 27 Dresses got made. It's so formulaic that you'd think one person in Hollywood would say, "Jeeze, how many times have we seen this equation? Pretty girl made to look not so pretty in the beginning and in love with the wrong guy then meets another guy who of course she doesn't like only to find out later on in the movie, after she's had a remarkable transformation into a pretty girl, that the guy she doesn't like is really the right guy." Even if Katherine Heigl is wearing a Wonder Bread paper wrapper and has no arms and legs she looks fabulous. Why don't they make movies out of some more interesting, in-depth reading, like these two books?

1. Driving Sideways by Jess Riley. A woman gets an organ transplant from a guy named Larry and that organ leads her on a cross country trip in search of a mother who abandoned her and the real story behind a freak who steals her purse.

2. Unpredictable by Eileen Cook. This is the story of a woman whose man walks out on her so she pretends to be psychic to get him back. I will just say that the story of the car moving is really genius and I only wish I had had the opportunity to do this once in my life. For reals.

They can't make a movie out of this next book but it sure has the best quotes outside of a Joe Eszterhas book.

3. Off The Record by award winning journalist Allison Samuels. This book unveils the behind the scenes look at what famous black people go through in movies, sports and music. Did you know that Michael Jordan's inside crew call him Black Cat? Me neither. And that Eddie Murphy single-handedly transformed the word 'posse' to refer to hangers-on? Me neither. Here are some other quotes from this book:

"After getting an Oscar nomination for What's Love Got to do With It?, Angela Bassett sat by the phone for months, waiting for work to come her way again. But she didn't work again for another year and a half."

"...(John) Grisham's unhappiness about Denzel Washington costarring in his film The Pelican Brief. It took the actress Julia Roberts to insist that he be cast. "He didn't see the character I played as being black," Washington said of the best-selling author. When I asked Grisham, he denied it."

"Whoopi Goldberg was also one of the two -and only living- black actresses who'd won an Oscar in the past. Goldberg won a Best Supporting Actress award for Ghost in 1991. Yet (Halle) Berry's tear-filled acceptance speech did not acknowledge Goldberg or Hattie McDaniel, the first African-American to win an Oscar (for Gone With the Wind) at all. Goldberg was royally insulted by this slight, and when I mentioned that perhaps Berry forgot in her moment of joy, the comic responded, "She looked at my black face the entire night. How could she forget?...You figure, if she's not going to recognize me, why should anyone else? And if she did forget, why haven't I heard from her? Why didn't she call or write to say she forgot?"

End of chat.

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

First of all, Mercury is in retrograde. If you don't know what that means, look it up. Then get some tissues and a bottle of Maker's Mark and don't answer your front door.

Martha Jane is in town from Honolulu and came bearing gifts on Wednesday. Pie, of course. And chocolate cake, both from Sweet Lady Jane on Melrose, here in L.A. She also bought gorgeous Calla Lilies and I realized that as many flowers as I've been given in my life, I've never received Calla Lilies. I also got my very own set of Household Saints. Every lapsed Catholic should have one. I'm not a fan of dark chocolate but have noticed that so far, of the people who have brought me chocolate, they have all brought me the dark kind. It's supposed to be healthy for you and keep heart attacks/killer bees/small children away from you. Just so we're clear, I'm the Queen of the Milk Chocoholics. The sweeter the better, and dark chocolate is bitter. A lot like me, actually. However, that did not keep me from eating it. All. Up.
Here are the pocket saints: St. Jude, the patron Saint of Impossible Causes, St. Clare, the Patron Saint of Television and St. Joseph, the Patron Saint of Houses. I would be very interested in knowing exactly how Clare had to prove that she was worthy of Sainthood since there were no flat screens or plasmas until recent times. Since she has to do with TV, I'm assuming she slept with someone at Paramount although that would make 98% of this town in line for sainthood.
Martha Jane signing the door.Here poor St. Jude valiantly tries to hold this impossible cause, the berry pie crust, together. He came without a halo; the other two statues had halos. I'm guessing it's because Jude was the one who slept with Clare and is on the short list for a transplant.

I think it's easy to see why I think Twitter is gay. Can you imagine reading this in 2 line increments all through the day? WITHOUT medication? See what I almost kind of saved you? I've noticed that the more people Twitter? The less they have to post about. And some were on thin content ice to begin with. Of course I can't use that as an excuse. I'm just Darla Dullard these days. When I go to the doctor I call myself Connie McCripplemaster, which always makes McLoserstene say, "Master? Do you really need to add Master to that name?" Then I have to take 10 seconds out of my extremely busy schedule of complaining and whining and tell her why I have to add Master. I have no idea what they're teaching these kids on the gangland streets today but whatever it is, it isn't WORKING.

Imagine the future. People will have no conversational skills, they will meet and break up over a text, fill each other in with tweets on how their day went. They will sullenly stomp through life looking for keyboards to relay their rage and proclaim their love. Talking dirty will be replaced with emoticons that they flash to each other during sex. No one will be able to bitch out their lawyer during their inevitable divorce because they will have forgotten how to talk. So as tedious as this post may have been, at least there were pictures. And possible Saint fucking and PIE. ;) ------> this might mean Blow Me. I don't have the manual in front of me.

End of chat.

Sweet Lady Jane Bakery St. Jude St. Clare St. Joseph Calla Lilies

Lars And The Real Suzy

The worst part of being a comedian is that when we get down, everyone goes "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Like we're supposed to be up and cheerful all the time. I thought I had disproved that notion over time in this blog, but obviously not very well. So last Friday I was as down as the temperature in Antarctica and I really appreciated all the emails and calls I got, some of which were quite surprising, like one from the hilarious comedian Carrie Snow, who I didn't even know read my blog. She told me to call her because my post didn't sound 'right.' I called her and once satisfied I was going to go on being a blog bitch, she came by the next day and gave me a DVD of her one woman show. I don't even know her, except by reputation, so that was over and above the call of duty. Of course we also trashed every comic we knew so that was even more fun and really convinced her I was on the mend. She offered to dye my eyelashes. I reminded her that I never leave my house. We have put that on the back burner.

This 'sitting around my house all day' shit is really as annoying as anything I've ever gone through in my life. The monotony is unbearable as I have no patience at all. I'm a Type A personality and the worst thing you can do to me is sit me in a chair and tell me to wait. Add some type of repetitive noise, like a dripping faucet, and I will give you all of our National secrets, my computer passwords and my shoes. MY SHOES. If I have to go to a doctor's office and wait I will end up straightening the magazines and offering to water the plants. If it's an especially long wait, I eye the reception desk longingly. Should I mention that I can grab the phones if they're all busy? You know that person at Starbucks, the one who always cleans up the sugar and cream area? That's me. I will take the napkins and wipe down the spills and ask for more Splenda from one of the baristas and then throw all the excess trash away. One day there was a girl who started helping me do it. We just looked at each other in this "Disturbing, isn't it?" kind of way.

Of all my husbands, and I have many, John Cusack (don't listen to Bossy, she's the town whore), George Clooney (don't listen to My Arch Enemy Jenee, she's the other town whore) I think Ryan Gosling is probably my favorite. When he and Rachel McAdams broke up I was happy and No One who has ever seen The Notebook was happy when those two broke up in real life. I saw Lars and the Real Girl this week. I thought it was hilarious but cried all through the last part of it. A story like this could only have happened in a small town with a very kind community so I'm not sure where that place is but I wanted to move there just so I could act out and not get all arrested and shit. For anyone with abandonment or intimacy issues, and I'd ask for a show of hands but all the servers in the world would crash, this movie really stabs you in the heart. I'm pretty sure I laughed at all the wrong places, especially since Vince Vaughn was not in this movie and only he makes me laugh inappropriately.

If you've seen the trailer for Lars, you know about the blow-up doll. I think we should all come equipped with a blow-up doll at birth. And get to kill it when we don't need it anymore. Which made me wonder how long it would take me to kill mine. It might have made it to last Friday. MIGHT have.

End of chat.

Mailbag # 7

Once again, out of context anonymous sentences from my emails:


We love you out here in nyc!!!!!

I was going to ask a lot of silly questions like do you think you'd be more famous if you released a sex tape.

ANT wants to add you as a friend on Pulse.

The funny thing about irony is how ironic it can be at times.

With as much metal as you now have in your body you should talk to Marvel about making you their next movie superhero.

I laughed out loud, then felt bad about laughing.

Nurses are so much nicer to funny people.

You are a tough cookie.

I like to bowl, but only if I am drinking.

Helping you makes me happy. I learned it from the Dalai Lama! He is my homeboy! If my home was in Dharmasala, India or Llasa.

I must have been stoned or in love when I saw it. Actually, I think it was both.

I’m jonesing for some good stomach virus- I need to let go of about 10 pounds right now.

If I had a gun I would have used it LONG AGO on myself. If you find one, I beg of you to point it directly at my head.

I'm still sending you some good tequila vibes.

Exactly why are we allowing tenants to move in in the middle of the night?

I am consumed about reading nice things about myself as I have no shame.

I'm a bitch before 2 pm.

Now where are my 2 adult children? You know, the crazy one & the crazy one?

Where My Dad Is Buried

This is what used to be called The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is now just known as The Tomb of a Soldier. It's at Arlington Cemetery in Washington D.C. and it's where my Dad is buried, under one of those ubiquitous white markers that have come to be associated with Arlington.
Dad didn't want to be buried there even though his grade of Colonel allowed him that honor. Sadly, Arlington is so crowded from recent wars that now only old warhorses like my dad, who have senior grades, can be put to rest here. Arlington is normally reserved for those who gave their lives for our country and knowing my Dad, he probably didn't think he deserved that honor since he made it through WWII. My sister and I knew he didn't want to be buried there so we waited. Dad's ashes sat in an urn on my sister's balcony overlooking the Santa Monica Mountains while we tried to decide where to bury him. People thought we were crazy. Years went by.

What we didn't know was that Dad bought four plots in Freeport, Illinois, at Chapel Hill Memorial Gardens. One for himself and one for his third wife and two for his children. His estate took me three years to go through and somewhere in the middle of that time, I discovered the deeds. Seems like a pretty big secret to carry with you but that was my Dad. He should have been named Harlan Taciturn, because he rarely spoke. So his third wife is buried there and the fourth wife is buried up in New York State. My sister and I are left with three empty plots. We found an online broker to try and sell them but so far haven't had any luck. I don't know, maybe Freeport is a charmed little town and no one dies there. Wouldn't that be nice?

But eventually we decided to go against his wishes and apply to Arlington and Dad was accepted. It works that way, unless of course you're KIA. He worked hard all his life and gave a lot to the Army so we wanted him, a man who only finished high school and then had to work to support his family instead of go to college, we wanted him to have something that we feel he would have been proud of. Even in death.

My sister and I have never seen his grave.

End of chat.

Gravesites for sale Freeport, Illinois Chapel Hill Memorial Gardens

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

And today I really mean that everyone can bite me. I went to the doctor on Wednesday. I have 6 more weeks in a cast and even though I was aware of it going in, it still plunged me into a depression. After the cast comes off the doctor said I get the black adjustable boot contraption for 3 weeks and finally get to put my foot through his face on the ground. That visit cost me $425 dollars, $125 for the pretty colored fiberglass alone. I took a Vicodin before I left the house, which I never do when I go to the Doctor, just in case it makes me weak, fall down on the crutches and go boom. But I was glad I had taken one because without it I'm pretty sure I would have melted down completely. You know that D.C. Madam who killed herself rather than go back to prison? At first I thought she was really overreacting but now? Not so much.

Then McLoserstene dropped me off at California Pizza Kitchen while she popped into Ikea and as I was waiting for her so we could have lunch, I saw this:

Those little feet sticking out from a completely hidden ten month old baby named Brian made me smile for the first time that day. I really wanted to crawl in there with him because that's how I want to finish up this recuperation. Or my life. Hidden under a blanket and wheeled about by loving, devoted parents. Psychologist, party of one.

I do not have that loving and devoted family. I think they were like that when I was younger but sometime in the last 15 years there is no love from them to me. My biggest fear for many years was that I would get famous and then die and news crews would talk to my mother.

COMEDIAN SUZY SORO FOUND DEAD IN HER HOLLYWOOD HILLS APARTMENT.

CNN: "Was she depressed these last few years?"
MOM: "Well, she never listened to me when I told her to change her hairdo."
ABC NEWS: "Was her career in trouble?"
MOM: "She never had a career."
CBS NEWS: "Did she get along with her family?"
MOM: "I'm not in touch with her family."
NBC NEWS: "But...aren't you her family?"
MOM: "Please don't mention that in the article."
MSNBC: "Did she have a lot of friends?"
MOM: "I don't think anyone liked her except her dog, and he's dead."
FOX NEWS: "Well thanks for your time."
MOM: "That's it? Don't you want to hear about my life?"

Yesterday was my sister's birthday. We haven't spoken in almost 3 years. I no longer talk to my mother either and my Dad died in 2001. After he died, the other two got strange. He left me and my sister money but not my mother. She and my sister tried to wrest control of my portion but failed. No one in my family was ever honest. Not even me. I learned it at the feet of the masters. Between my parents they had 5 marriages and my sister and I were terrified to get married, even though I was engaged three times. My mother had someone on the side for most of her marriage and my father was married once before my mother but no one ever told us until after their divorce. Then Dad didn't bother to inform us when he married for the third time. We weren't even invited. You see what I'm dealing with here? Maybe it's better they're not in my life. They're so hyper-critical that it's impossible to feel like any type of success around them. Especially of the emotional kind.

And now, all these centuries later, I feel I wasted my life chasing my career and not marriage and a family of my own. But after what I saw at home, it was obviously the last thing on my mind. I also have the worst possible taste in men so that didn't help. Due to my inability to be honest, intimacy is a huge problem for me. If I am intimate and vulnerable, only bad things can come of it in my head. It's better to let them think I barely care. Pretty fucked up, I know. And yet now I wish I had a husband who loved me and children to get on my nerves. As it is, if it weren't for McLoserstene and her family, I'd be fairly lost right now. And thanks to all my friends who have visited or written and called, I couldn't have gotten through this without you either. Even my arch enemy Jenee visited me last weekend and brought me lunch and signed my door "You're a 'funny cunt' and if you understand our profession, you know that's really a term of endearment. The word 'funny', I mean.

I picked the color yellow because it was cheerful. Maybe eventually it will work. I don't smoke or drink anymore but this last surgery, the third in five years, has tried my last addictive nerve and I swear I could start either again with not even one wee regret, that's how shitty and depressed I feel. I sometimes wonder if all the good stuff has already happened to me. Now every day brings some letdown, some sadness, some small misery I can't change. Up until 7 years ago, I loved my life. It was perfect. But then my Dad died, I lost the love of my life, Elvis, my remaining family turned into assholes and I had to watch as my body disintegrated due to a childhood disease. Is the next step me getting into a plane with a Kennedy and nosediving into the ocean?

There's a lot of things I don't talk about on this blog. Because it wouldn't be fun, not for you and definitely not for me. Over the years I've had four therapists and although they've changed my life in so many positive ways, the one thing they can't do is mend a broken heart. Even the Bee Gees can't do that.

End of chat.