Posts Tagged ‘Freddy Duke’

Dig Deep

Tuesday, November 24th, 2020

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.” (more…)

And I Felt…Something

Saturday, July 13th, 2019

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. (more…)

The Eulogy I Never Wanted To Write

Monday, April 8th, 2019

 

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…)

Close Your Eyes

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2018

 

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…)

Rent A (Wedding) Wreck

Tuesday, February 13th, 2018

 

 

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…)

One is the Loneliest Number (A Harry Nilsson song that fueled my teen angst, performed by Three Dog Night)

Wednesday, June 21st, 2017

 

 Me yearbook 1971

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. (more…)

Angels and Devils

Saturday, April 1st, 2017

 

IMG_0030me in hippie clothes headshot

When I was 18 years old I had an anthem.

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…)

Mi Casa es Mi Casa

Sunday, February 12th, 2017

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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…)

Three Quick Stories

Monday, December 26th, 2016

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One: Party of the Year

In high school, this brother and sister I was friends with decided to throw the Party of the Year. They enlisted my help. “Fredde, will you invite a bunch of people and say it’s an open party?   You know everyone.   Our parents will be out of town. We want to make it epic.”

I don’t know if they used epic, that’s more of a word from today, but they did want it to be memorable. And it was. Sort of thanks to me. I spread the word. The house was full of rabble-rousers. The place was trashed. And now the kids would be in some deep trouble. So, what did they do? Blamed me. Yep. They said Fredde Duke told everyone to show up here and she threw a party. I did not.   But they were now out of trouble, and I was considered quite the shit stirrer.

I waited 35 years and decided it was time to set the record straight. I look the number up. Still listed. And, yes, I hear from a mutual friend that both parents are still alive. I dial the number. “Hi Mr. and Mrs. ______. I’m Fredde Duke. Do you remember me?”

I got a very lovely, “Yes, of course we do, Fredde. “ (more…)

Battle Scar

Friday, September 9th, 2016

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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…)