No. 29
Dear Romance,
Where are you? Once upon a time you were bleeding from my fingertips, and now you are lost in the grand canyons of nowhere. I mean, cuddling up alone to two bottles of Chardonnay and fuzzy pink slippers on a Wednesday night just doesn't cut it anymore, even if their is a teenaged Christian Slater movie on TV. I want the real thing. I want petals, and fondue, and gilded lingerie, and waterfalls, and serenades, and balconies, and whispered candied words, and all the other delicious souvenirs of love.
Really? I'm making myself puke just a little bit. But something is missing. And romance, I know it's you.
Where are you? Once upon a time you were bleeding from my fingertips, and now you are lost in the grand canyons of nowhere. I mean, cuddling up alone to two bottles of Chardonnay and fuzzy pink slippers on a Wednesday night just doesn't cut it anymore, even if their is a teenaged Christian Slater movie on TV. I want the real thing. I want petals, and fondue, and gilded lingerie, and waterfalls, and serenades, and balconies, and whispered candied words, and all the other delicious souvenirs of love.
Really? I'm making myself puke just a little bit. But something is missing. And romance, I know it's you.
No. 28
Di,
Did I ever tell you about the time I fucked Brad Pitt? He came and came and came. Aside from being the most loquacious lover I've ever had, he also insisted on ordering Chinese food after we were done every single time. I used to wrap myself in his long, beautiful goldilocks, and I was jealous that his mane was so much more perfect than mine. He asked me if he should cut it, and I told him no, never, though that was long before he fell into the Jen-gelina traps. Sigh. What I wouldn't give to spend another night in his safari themed jacuzzi replete bachelor pad. Oh well, he wasn't that big, a little on the average side if you ask me. Plus, I don't think he's aged that well, really.
Oh yeah, he was even gonna get my name tattooed on his bicep, but I begged him not to. I knew it could never last. He was a little too wishy washy for me.
Did I ever tell you about the time I fucked Brad Pitt? He came and came and came. Aside from being the most loquacious lover I've ever had, he also insisted on ordering Chinese food after we were done every single time. I used to wrap myself in his long, beautiful goldilocks, and I was jealous that his mane was so much more perfect than mine. He asked me if he should cut it, and I told him no, never, though that was long before he fell into the Jen-gelina traps. Sigh. What I wouldn't give to spend another night in his safari themed jacuzzi replete bachelor pad. Oh well, he wasn't that big, a little on the average side if you ask me. Plus, I don't think he's aged that well, really.
Oh yeah, he was even gonna get my name tattooed on his bicep, but I begged him not to. I knew it could never last. He was a little too wishy washy for me.
No. 27
Di,
You know I'm not much of a cook, and while I love food to death, I'm not one of those people who walks around with uppity crotches and Aladdin pants calling themselves foodies. Anyways, the point is that my late great aunt bequeathed me five bags of quinoa upon her death six months ago, and it's just been warming up my cupboards ever since. I didn't know what to do with it, and, frankly, neither does my personal chef (though lord knows she tried). In the end, I found a much better use for it as cat litter. It works like a charm, and is much better than any of those clumping ones. At least that's what the maid told me, though it was in between melodramatic sobs, so I can't be sure- she was crying over her recently deported lover at the time.
I've also heard that you can make it into natural tampons, though I wouldn't go that far.
You know I'm not much of a cook, and while I love food to death, I'm not one of those people who walks around with uppity crotches and Aladdin pants calling themselves foodies. Anyways, the point is that my late great aunt bequeathed me five bags of quinoa upon her death six months ago, and it's just been warming up my cupboards ever since. I didn't know what to do with it, and, frankly, neither does my personal chef (though lord knows she tried). In the end, I found a much better use for it as cat litter. It works like a charm, and is much better than any of those clumping ones. At least that's what the maid told me, though it was in between melodramatic sobs, so I can't be sure- she was crying over her recently deported lover at the time.
I've also heard that you can make it into natural tampons, though I wouldn't go that far.
No. 26
One of the most important moments of my life happened on a Sunday evening. The sun was setting, the sky dripping all blood and half-used-tampon-mixed-with-sangria-like, and I decided, right then and there, on the balcony of some long lost hotel that Elizabeth Taylor used to frequent, that it would be nothing but the best designer merkins from here on out. I never looked back.
No. 25
I've come to the realization that I just can't exercise unless someone else does it for me. Also, I'm allergic to rain and toilet paper less than 50 count.
No. 24
I'll tell you one thing, that lawyer I had a fling with so many, many years ago, his breath tasted like charcoal with a hint of blood.
No. 23
Just got back from a sleepover with Oprah and Gayle- it was fantabulous! Really, you could hardly find more down to earth girls than those two, and I hope to spend a lot more time with them in the future. Needless to say, we ate a lot of popcorn, and shared some deep secrets, which naturally elicited a fountain of tears that could take the desert out of the Sahara. Oh, and since they'd just had a spat, Oprah was dishing all the dirt on Steadman. Steadman, what kind of name is that anyways?
More soon, Di. I've got to go and buy some hors d'oeuvres for a cocktail party I'm having later. The theme is unicorns in the mist.
More soon, Di. I've got to go and buy some hors d'oeuvres for a cocktail party I'm having later. The theme is unicorns in the mist.
No. 21
Diary, I've got to come clean. I've been in a real tizzy lately- even my extensions are falling out! See, about fifteen years ago I slept with a man who was well past being my senior in age, for an extended vacation period of time, and now it's come back to haunt me. Literally. He died a couple of weeks ago, choked on a pretzel or something so unspectacular, and left me in the will. Can you believe it? Poor thing probably hadn't updated it since the time of our affair not to remember, and now his children don't know who the hell I am, and oh, pardon my language, Di, but it's just an honest to somebody's god mess.
I'll breath a sigh of relief when it's all over. I mean, honestly, his pretty pennies don't mean squat to me. Just as long as I don't wait up with no ghost dad under my bedspread. If I do, I'll take that bastard for every last crumb he has. Nobody haunts me, not nobody.
I'll breath a sigh of relief when it's all over. I mean, honestly, his pretty pennies don't mean squat to me. Just as long as I don't wait up with no ghost dad under my bedspread. If I do, I'll take that bastard for every last crumb he has. Nobody haunts me, not nobody.
No. 19
Oh diary, sometimes I feel like I'm leaving you behind. Life has been such a hurdle lately, if not an inconvenience altogether. I've been working with a top designer on making a gown out of champagne, and we've hit a snag, so to speak. You know, sometimes I'm a little bit jealous of people in comas, just think of all the things that they never have to worry about.
Well, here's one for the books. When I was nineteen I had an affair with a Mexican dwarf, albeit a very short one.
By the way diary, I'm heading down to Jamaica next week. Time to brush up on my Rastafarian accent, I suppose. Oh, how time dwindles.
Well, here's one for the books. When I was nineteen I had an affair with a Mexican dwarf, albeit a very short one.
By the way diary, I'm heading down to Jamaica next week. Time to brush up on my Rastafarian accent, I suppose. Oh, how time dwindles.
No. 18
Today I'm going for my spiritual vacuuming. I need to consider the following things:
1. My on and off friendship with Morgan Fairchild. Is it worth it?
2. Whether my soul has ever recovered from the time I was almost kidnapped in Palm Springs by a gang of aging terrorists.
3. My next vacation. It needs to be exotic and mystical, yet with also a certain familiarity. St Barts?
4. My frequent and yet irregular indigestion, and the subsequent development of hives. An investigation must be conducted into what is causing it.
5. A nude pictorial. Is it something that I should pursue for the sake of posterity?
Also, Georges says we should stop giving the cats Perrier. After all these years? They wouldn't hear of it, believe you me.
1. My on and off friendship with Morgan Fairchild. Is it worth it?
2. Whether my soul has ever recovered from the time I was almost kidnapped in Palm Springs by a gang of aging terrorists.
3. My next vacation. It needs to be exotic and mystical, yet with also a certain familiarity. St Barts?
4. My frequent and yet irregular indigestion, and the subsequent development of hives. An investigation must be conducted into what is causing it.
5. A nude pictorial. Is it something that I should pursue for the sake of posterity?
Also, Georges says we should stop giving the cats Perrier. After all these years? They wouldn't hear of it, believe you me.
No. 17
Dearest diary: Last night I went on a real bender, and this morning I paid for it dearly. I swear I puked up my left lung. You know diary, Jesus never suffered as much as I have.
I'm thinking of throwing a tea party. Is that done anymore? I really don't know. But maybe it's due for a comeback, like Crystal Pepsi or something. All I know is I want a lot of pink frills. And maybe I can rent some lions or something. Does that make sense? Honestly diary, I wouldn't know anymore. I feel like I just woke up out of some kind of coma.
There's not many things that I would lose a friend over, but there are a few. One is if you have an affair with my husband. Two is if you borrow my hairbrush. Three is if you invite me over to your home and you don't have any white champagne. I'm not picky on the type, but it has to be there for me to drink. Or seriously, I won't be walking on your ugly carpets anymore.
I'm thinking of throwing a tea party. Is that done anymore? I really don't know. But maybe it's due for a comeback, like Crystal Pepsi or something. All I know is I want a lot of pink frills. And maybe I can rent some lions or something. Does that make sense? Honestly diary, I wouldn't know anymore. I feel like I just woke up out of some kind of coma.
There's not many things that I would lose a friend over, but there are a few. One is if you have an affair with my husband. Two is if you borrow my hairbrush. Three is if you invite me over to your home and you don't have any white champagne. I'm not picky on the type, but it has to be there for me to drink. Or seriously, I won't be walking on your ugly carpets anymore.
No. 16
I am seriously considering putting my life on hiatus. I just need to take a break. All the shopping, driving around, counting my perfumes, getting my nails done, well, it’s boring me to the seams, and driving me as wild as inmate just let out of prison. Speaking of prison, some of best friends have launched second careers later in life as white-collar criminals. I still cherish the memories of them dearly, but let’s just say they should be glad it wasn’t my Swiss bank account they were dipping into.
Diary, someone as beautiful as me once said, “Tomorrow is another day.” And that’s true. Maybe tomorrow I won’t feel so down in the Beverly Hills dumps. Oh yeah, someone broke the front window of my belvedere last week, that’s what’s really getting me down. It’s unnerving to know that there are little vandals out there running wild and free, like vampires in some pathetic teen franchise. Or who knows. Maybe they’re big vandals. Big and muscular and tall and well-built and...thoughtful.
Well, diary if I don’t abandon ship tomorrow morning it will be a miracle sized medium. You know, I think that maybe I should start working on my butler murder mystery series, or my cooking-while-you-exercise DVDs. I’ve put those projects aside for some time now, but they might really serve as a not so abstract pick me up. I keep trying to meditate, but my mind inevitably drifts to lollipops or lemonade or...well, it does seem to be a lot of "L" things, if we're being honest.
No. 15
Dearest Diary:
Sometimes I feel like no one in the whole world understands me diary, except you. I swear my life reads like a bad romance novel, except minus the man with the bad Fabio hair. Rich might as well be a synonym for alone, I swear. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and my chandelier earrings have punctured my earlobes for the umpteenth time, there's blood all over my satin pillows, and I can't even remember my own maiden name.
Life is hard, diary. No one understands this. Everyone assumes that my grass is always the greenest, but the truth is, the fringes of my grass are beginning to brown. In no time, it'll be full blown jungle fever. I wish I enjoyed knitting or something, and that if I just knit a bunch of sweaters for orphans in Bratislava I'd feel really happy. Like fulfilled. I'm tired of my champagne glass being half full, diary, I really am.
Sometimes I feel like no one in the whole world understands me diary, except you. I swear my life reads like a bad romance novel, except minus the man with the bad Fabio hair. Rich might as well be a synonym for alone, I swear. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and my chandelier earrings have punctured my earlobes for the umpteenth time, there's blood all over my satin pillows, and I can't even remember my own maiden name.
Life is hard, diary. No one understands this. Everyone assumes that my grass is always the greenest, but the truth is, the fringes of my grass are beginning to brown. In no time, it'll be full blown jungle fever. I wish I enjoyed knitting or something, and that if I just knit a bunch of sweaters for orphans in Bratislava I'd feel really happy. Like fulfilled. I'm tired of my champagne glass being half full, diary, I really am.
No. 14
Diary, I feel like I’ve been hung out to dry like a used tampon. My BFF Dinah and I were supposed to hit Vegas this weekend for a girls only weekend, but instead she dragged along her latest butler turned paramour named Alfred. I was like, are you kidding me? First of all, who even dates a guy named Alfred? I mean, Fred? Really? Come on. Secondly, I was looking forward to some truly indulgent, child and beau free, endless bottles of Cristal, waking up and not remembering where the hell you are, unabashed and unapologetic fun. F-u-n. But instead Dinah had to drag along her would be janitor, and turn it into some formal party more suited to a senior citizen Austrian count out for his last hoorah. In other words, it was a snore fest part two. I think my hotel chambermaid had more of a time.
Well, hopefully Dinah will leave her own private snooze fest behind when we hit Rodeo tomorrow. I mean, she can’t start dragging him around like her latest designer purse, here, there and everywhere, can she? I love Dinah, but sometimes I think I’d like her to strangle her by the cord of one of those old timey phone thingamajigs.
No. 13
When my Malibu mansion, aka Tallulah Rosemary, burned down in a forest fire two summers ago, it was like a little part of me inside (something akin to the deceased embryo of the twin I never had still lying inside of me?) died. You might not believe that a person can become a part of their house and vice versa (have you never seen a horror movie?), but in this case, the house and I, we were like kindred spirits. It was my home away from home away from home. We broke in the new millennium in that house, and my water broke during my phantom pregnancy in that house. It was truly a vessel to the soul. And then suddenly, and literally, it was gone with the wind, just like that. Ashes to ashes, so to speak.
Home is where the heart is, that’s what they say. Absolutely true, but I also say this: hell is where the heart is. I’ve really been through so much in the past two years, what with my leaky boob and the aforementioned blaze, along with the dissolution of my non-profit QVC jewelry line, and nearly being shot by a poacher during the African safari last year. So we’ll see. I think I might be overdue for a visit my psychic, Gina. If nothing else, I need some frank advice about what is happening with my hair (which, by the way, has managed to look like a typhoon rolled through it every morning this week). Oh, and I need to find out whether the amusement park investment will be worthwhile, roller coasters and all.
Home is where the heart is, that’s what they say. Absolutely true, but I also say this: hell is where the heart is. I’ve really been through so much in the past two years, what with my leaky boob and the aforementioned blaze, along with the dissolution of my non-profit QVC jewelry line, and nearly being shot by a poacher during the African safari last year. So we’ll see. I think I might be overdue for a visit my psychic, Gina. If nothing else, I need some frank advice about what is happening with my hair (which, by the way, has managed to look like a typhoon rolled through it every morning this week). Oh, and I need to find out whether the amusement park investment will be worthwhile, roller coasters and all.
P.S. diary, 13 has always been my lucky number.
No. 11
My vagina is just so effortlessly chic that I really don’t require a merkin. Or a vajazzle, for that matter. Let’s just say that my vagina is dazzling all on its very own. Some have compared it to a pot of gold.
I guess I’m saying that because lately there has been so much chitter chatter around vajazzling this and diamonding that, and one of my dearest, dearest frenemies has even got hers done. I think it’s a load of a baloney (or jambon, so to speak), but who’s to say. I guess only time will tell whether a little glitter goes a long way.
I don’t know diary, I can’t help but thinking that if you were doing more fucking, you wouldn’t really care about the sparkle factor of your vag.
Actually, the only way my vagina could be better would be if it had a mini-bar.
Actually, the only way my vagina could be better would be if it had a mini-bar.
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