Even I noticed the perfectly formed bottom of the woman sporting a clingy, ankle-length, knit skirt. She was perfect from the back–– and okay––the front.
From his vantage, he was totally drawn to the ass. Who wouldn’t be?
In this era of #MeToo, he just reached out and touched it, oh-so-slightly. His hand didn’t really fit around her bottom. But it was a rewarding grab. She did not whip around and slap him like in an old-timey movie. I wondered if, like me, she sort of still welcomes a nice touch on the ass.
“You have the whitest teeth,” some random older woman said to me at a dinner party in the ‘80s. Then her whole family from out of town chimed in, “We are obsessed with your teeth!” It was an unusual compliment. And, with a minor amount of self-deprecation, I proudly accepted.
I was in Paris on a trip with my best friend, Kimberly, and my one-year-old child, Oliver. We were staying in small quarters in an inexpensive pensione. “I have to tell you your breath is very bad,” Kimberly said to me in our little room. “I’ve wanted to tell you for days, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Turns out, I had a leaky crown, which sends out a foul odor. One that I couldn’t, or didn’t, detect.
Colon cancer runs in my family. Procrastination runs in me. So, a few years after my suggested year to get another colonoscopy, I went to the doctor and negotiated a few more years. Then I let even more years slip by. At this point, I was way overdue. I went in again. Now when my doctor, Denise Hertz (read: hurts), saw how profoundly neurotic I was – she decided I could go in for the virtual colonoscopy instead. It’s offered by the same radiology group that does my equally dreaded, but not procrastinated (usually) mammograms.
Let me circle back quickly to when I lost my colonoscopy virginity. I’m around 50. Probably exactly 50, since it’s the age they want you to get your first colonoscopy. I make an appointment with some dude in Beverly Hills that other friends have been to. It’s in a surgical center at the bottom of an office building. I’m sedated and in the middle of the procedure. I say, “Owww!” (Don’t worry, I won’t circle back to my C-section without anesthetic – you can do that on your own in my blog.) I’m pulled out from being under and the doctor looks at me and says he can’t finish the procedure because I have — wait for it — “a mangled, twisted colon.” Yep, that’s what he said. So, I ask him, “How many fucking people in the world have a mangled, twisted colon?” He answers, “Two percent.” Read the rest of this entry »
My separation anxiety started last night. Though you didn’t leave until just now. I kept staring at you. Touching you for the last time. You felt stiff and cold – fitting, because you were dead to me. In truth, I wanted to toss you out of here five years ago. And you knew it. You knew our romance had ended.
But, hey, 15 years was a pretty good run. In fact, a 15 year relationship in Hollywood is like a century anywhere else.
I don’t think you realized how much shit I talked about you behind your back. To friends. To my therapist. Told them I was over you. That I’d outgrown you. Told them it was time for me to start over. Read the rest of this entry »
Let me start this story exactly where it begins. My best friend Kimberly had been taking a few different acting classes. I audited them but didn’t spark to any for myself. They seemed cultish. As if the whole thing had to do with admiring the teacher. The students were like followers. And I didn’t like all the “acting” exercises.
I remember watching Arnold Schwarzenegger do a scene in Eric Morris’s acting class. Arnold was then just starting out and known only as a body builder.
Kimberly guided me to a class deep in the Valley. Though you could take the same class in Point Dume at the teacher’s house, I chose the Valley. The class was taught by a famous acting teacher named Jeff Corey. Read the rest of this entry »
Let me start this story by saying, I’m not a momager. Do you know what a momager is? It’s a mom who’s also a manager. Think Kris Kardashian. Kim’s mom. I’m not her. I do, however, have actor/performer children, now adults. Sometimes they ask my advice about their careers. Sometimes I have an answer. But only because I grew up in the business. Not because I know the world of show business now.
My father was a manager. A real one. He was not my manager. But when I had questions, I went to him. He had answers. He also was a touch of a stage dad, but only in that he was proud when I worked. He would visit the set of a commercial I shot. Then, behind my back, he would contact the ad agency and ask for a reel of the ad. Okay, I’m so off topic. Just setting the stage, so to speak.
My son in this story, I will call him B. Just B. I’m paranoid. I think he signed a nondisclosure agreement. He did sign one. It’s been years now and I’m sure I shouldn’t care. I mean, I’m telling this story. Read the rest of this entry »
First the joke I wrote while waiting behind the gauze curtains at a Jewish funeral. The first joke I would ever write.
Let me set the scene: Forest Lawn in Burbank, California. The year 1996. The chapel – is it called a chapel? Is spilling over. There are well over 200 guests and not enough seats so some people will be outside.
“I think I might need my dad’s cane here today and maybe his brace. God knows I have his balls.”
I looked straight into the audience and saw Red Buttons and Shecky Greene laughing. That’s when I knew I had this. Though I’m not great at public speaking. It’s my biggest fear – among so many fears. Maybe I didn’t inherit the large balls after all. My father was fearless. Oh, did I mention this is my dad’s funeral? Now you know.
The beauty of my father was – well – so many things I’ll try and share with you. But one of them being that he would grade you. He’d give everyone an A or 100%. But, it was always a perfect score. So, first off, I’d like to give my dad 100 for being the best dad a little girl could ever have. Read the rest of this entry »
His adoption story: It was “the fastest ever,” according to the militant dog adoption folks. We looked for a dog for two straight years. Every Sunday without fail, my husband and I combed through the available dogs at the Farmers Market, on Sunset, in the Palisades. Nothing did it for us.
Then one Sunday, before I woke up, my husband called and said there’s a very cute dog here. The owner is giving him up, but hanging around for the day, hoping to find him a home. An out-of-the-ordinary, not-in-the-system-yet, dog. I said just bring him and the owner to our house. I’ll see him here. Not something they do. But, they did. For me.
Two hundred dollars and an hour later, we had our new dog with the adorable “Disney dog” face. They didn’t do their usual home check. The adoption people knew us well by now, and trusted us.
Our dog came with a name: Dre. Scratch Dre in the first minute, because we’d already agreed that we loved the name Bing. Bing, our new nine-month-old, wired-hair, tan and orange, mid-sized, human-faced boy. Read the rest of this entry »
I think of my friend Dave as the patron saint of divorce. Why, you may ask? Well, Dave came to my rescue when my long-predicted-to-end-marriage, ended.
Let me start at the beginning. I was in my late twenties. All, I mean some, of my friends were swept up in the wedding/baby thing and I thought, me too. And no, if they all jumped off of a bridge, I would not jump. But in hindsight, getting married was a lot like jumping off a bridge. And my body is tiny and breaks easily.
I showed up one day at Jane Fonda’s workout dressed in full early-80’s workout gear. I didn’t even exercise, you should know, I just liked costumes, especially the look of those scrunched-up leggings on my ankles. I was there to corner my best friend Stacey, to whom I would reveal and process the secret news. I had to wait until her hardcore class was over. Then I followed my out-of-breath, sweaty girlfriend to the bathroom.
“I think I just got married.”
Stacey stared back at my reflection in the mirror while splashing cold water on her face. “You think.” Read the rest of this entry »
One is the Loneliest Number is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.
I sit alone for hours brooding. If you meet me, you’ll think I’m a happy-go-lucky kid. But sometimes I live in a darker world.
Two can be as bad as one. It’s the loneliest number since the number one.
The need to smoke my first cigarette is profound. I think it will give me that teenager lift I’m looking for. Smoking is camaraderie. I’ll be a comrade. My mother isn’t around today — which is rare. She’s always a figure in motion around our house. Or she’s sequestered in her bedroom fighting her own private demons.
No is the saddest experience you’ll ever know. Yes, it’s the saddest experience you’ll ever know.Read the rest of this entry »
