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.
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. (more…)
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. (more…)
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. (more…)
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.” (more…)
At the time, two women, who seemed almost elderly, but were only in their mid-50s, were my feminist role models. They didn’t know it.
My own mother was a very independent woman and was already a pretty good role model. But she wasn’t as forthcoming and strong. I felt my mother’s strength was just the hand she’d been dealt. That’s another story for another time.
These two women, who had just entered my life, were fierce and unapologetic about their strength. Janet had a degree as a medical doctor and was a New York shrink on the Upper East Side. Ruth had an MSW and practiced therapy out of her duplex in Beverly Hills. She also happened to be the mother of my then boyfriend.
When these two besties got together, they wore matching (although in different colors) Lanz nightgowns to bed. They’d giggle all night during their two-week long, if not longer, slumber parties.
The headboard of Ruth’s bed was a spectacular mural of hand painted cherubs (angels) and clouds. Their lives, their friendship, their headboards, their taste in music and books and film, all seemed fantastic to me. I was captivated.
Ruth and Janet turned me onto my anthem. I knew and recited the words by heart. I bought the album and played it more than some people were playing Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills & Nash. Over and over all day long, I pulled the needle back to start my favorite song again one more time. This was 1972. The album was released a year earlier. (more…)
If I am within blocks of my childhood home in Beverly Hills, like a homing pigeon, I make my way to 340 South Roxbury Drive. One night, more than 18 years ago, I asked my then boyfriend to turn left from Olympic as we approached the street I once called home. Home. The word. The symbol so loaded for me. Nearly two years before, I had purchased a condo. I didn’t think of it as home. It was all that I could afford. Small. Two bedrooms. Dark and depressing. Both my parents had died, the small amount of money they left enabled me to finally buy real estate. I hated that condo. I tried to decorate myself into loving it. I even hired the best craftsman to lay wall to wall Saltillo tile with colorful Spanish tiles as an accent. I was hoping that would give me the thing I was looking for.
What was I looking for? I know what it was. Security. I wanted the man I had been dating for seven years to marry me. To finally really take care of me. I got a lot of resistance.
“Stop. Pull over.” I stared into the barely lit home. It was late and dark outside. I flashed on coming home at night as a teenager. Alone. Pulling up in the driveway and getting out quickly because the courtyard was dark and appeared menacing with the overgrown pepper tree casting ominous shadows. My mother loved her tree. She admired every single detail in her home. From the beamed ceilings to the black wrought iron banister to the stained glass window. My mother, now dead, wasn’t able to live her days out in her beloved Spanish home. When she could no longer afford it, she moved to the desert. Not in a home that she valued for it’s exquisite taste. Once she moved to Palm Springs, a place we vacationed and enjoyed when I was growing up, she became a recluse. I so did not want to live my mother’s life. I needed my own Spanish home. And a fresh start. And a ring on it. (more…)
A few months ago, Oliver, my eldest son, walks into my bedroom, “I really like what you’ve done with the room. Very hospice chic.” Jimmy Kimmel might be blasting on my TV at midnight, and he will come in and say, “So, this is what it’s like at the end?” His humor and teasing are endlessly entertaining to me. I laugh until I cry at these bits poking fun of his mother – me. The newest bit is that he tells me I’m over- painting my eyebrows. “They’re too high on your forehead, you look like a scared cartoon character.”
Just tonight, while he playfully beat me up with his hilarious take on me, he thought he had me. “Wait” he asked. “How old am I?” In the middle of both laughter and tears, I answer Oliver. “I know how old you are.” The truth is, I really did have to think for a second. And he knows that. “You’re thirty-three, right?” I realize that adding the right will give him more fuel to make fun of me but maybe I feed him material sometimes.
There is one thing I might not have revealed to my son and that is the truth of his birth experience. But, one day while he was growing up, his father let the story slip. Oliver has never once made fun of it. In a way, it’s a relief. I hate secrets. But I would keep a secret if it kept someone safe. Actually, my friends know that I will go to the grave with their secrets if they ask me to. I just hate to be asked. (more…)
I was living the life in Malibu. Beachfront. On the water. Waves crashing, lulling me to sleep. On the street side, the monotonous drone of Pacific Coast Highway was its own kind of white noise. Everything was good in the world.
My agents phoned about an interview. They always called auditions interviews. Some director in New York wanted to hear a recording of my voice reading the script for a commercial. No on-camera audition required. I was the only actor in Los Angeles requested, not that I knew this at the time.
I landed the job and took off for Miami, Florida. Filming would be in Coral Gables. At the hotel, I was met by “it” director Melvin Sokolsky, who gave me the warmest hug. Sokolsky had been an award-winning photographer who, at the age of twenty-one was invited to join the staff of Harper’s Bazaar. He also contributed to Vogue, Esquire, McCall’s & Newsweek. In 1969 he embarked on a new career in television commercials. He would eventually win 25 Clio Awards, the Oscar of the ad business. (more…)
