by Laura Levine
“Where the hell have you been?” she said, glaring at me balefully. (Okay, so she didn’t actually say that, but I knew that’s what she was thinking.) Prozac was used to having me home all day, at her beck and call, feeding her snacks and rubbing her belly on demand. I’d explained to her that this show biz thing was my big break, that soon she’d be eating Bumblebee tuna in the Malibu sun, but I guess she’d been too busy licking her privates to pay any attention.
“Prozac, honey,” I said, scooping her up in my arms. “Forgive me for leaving ooo home alone! Pweese? Pwetty pweese?”
She shot me a look that undoubtedly meant, “Will you stop that inane baby talk? I’m a cat. Not an infant. Now where’s my dinner?”
I hustled into the kitchen and opened a can of Gourmet Fish Innards, which she inhaled in record time.
Then, to celebrate my first day on the job, I poured myself a tiny glass of chardonnay. Oh, who am I kidding? It was a jelly glass, and I filled it practically to the brim.
I brought my chardonnay into the living room, along with a Jumbo Jack I’d picked up on the way home, and settled down on my sofa to enjoy the view. Of course, the only view outside my living room window is the neighbor’s azalea bush. But I don’t mind. I like azaleas. I’d much rather watch them than the evening news.
I live in a one-bedroom apartment in the slums of Beverly Hills. Well, technically it’s not a slum. Technically it’s a pleasant, middle-class street dotted with duplexes and jacaranda trees and small yapping dogs who drive Prozac crazy. But compared to the mega-mansions north of Sunset Boulevard, it’s a slum. Trust me on that one.
My apartment is the back unit of a 1940’s duplex. It’s got the original hardwood floors, the original tile-work—and the original plumbing. Which is why I’m on a first-name basis with the guys at Toiletmasters.
As I sat sipping my chardonnay and watching the azaleas, Prozac ambled over. Still hungry after her fishgut dinner, she leaped up on the coffee table and started nosing around my Jumbo Jack. I crumbled a few pieces of the burger and put them on a napkin for her. She sucked them up in a single gulp and wailed for more.
“That’s it,” I said. “No more. Absolutely not. You’ve had enough.”
She looked up at me with huge green eyes, doing her best to look adorable.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m not changing my mind.” Defiantly, I grabbed the burger and took a bite.
She meowed piteously.
“Besides,” I said, over her howls, “I’m hungry. All I had for lunch today was a tiny nicoise salad.”
She shot me a look that said, Yeah, right, and I climbed Mount Everest.
It went on that way for a minute or two, Prozac staring at me and me trying to ignore her meows. You’d have thought she hadn’t eaten in days.
I caved in, of course. I always do. I gave her some more burger and took what remained of the Jumbo Jack into the bathroom, where I sat on the edge of the tub and ate it in peace.
I was just licking the last of the ketchup from my fingers when I heard someone knocking at the front door.
It was my neighbor, Lance Venable.
Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he looks the part: tall and slim, with narrow feet and a headful of tight blond curls. We’ve never actually spoken about it, but I’ve always assumed that he’s gay, an assumption I made one night when I saw him kissing another guy on his front steps.
The trouble with Lance is he’s got x-ray hearing. I’m not kidding. A dog barks in Pomona, and Lance hears it. Needless to say, he hears everything that goes on in my apartment. I listen to Jeopardy, and Lance shouts out the answers. I peel an onion, and he cries. I gargle, and he spits. All of which leaves a lot to be desired in the privacy department. But on the plus side, he’s a really nice guy who’s been there for me when I need him.
“So?” he grinned. “How was your first day on the job?”
“Come on in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I poured him some wine, and we sat facing each other at opposite ends of the sofa, taking turns rubbing Prozac’s belly while I gave him the highlights of my day.
“Vanessa Duffy wears falsies on her tush?” he said when I was through.
“It’s only a rumor.”
“Can I spread it?”
“Be my guest.” I felt absolutely no loyalty to V.D. after what she’d said about my script.
Lance put down his wine and grinned, excited. “Guess what?” he said. “I’ve got a really terrific idea for a sitcom.”
Uh-oh. Kandi warned me stuff like this would happen. Everyone in Los Angeles has an idea for a movie/sitcom/game/talk show. Once people know you’re in show business, they want to pitch it to you.
“Oh?” I said warily.
“About a bunch of people working in the shoe department of a high-end department store. Called If the Shoe Fits.” He beamed proudly. “Either that, or There’s No Business Like Shoe Business.”
“Sounds great,” I lied.
“I’m so glad you like it. Because I thought maybe we could work on it together.”
Oh, God. A sitcom about feet. What had I gotten myself into?
“Well, actually, I’m pretty busy right now,” I hedged.
“It won’t take you long, I promise. I’ll write the actual script, and all you have to do is throw in a few jokes.” He smiled eagerly. “So how about it?”
“What are you, crazy? You think I want to sit around thinking up bunion jokes?”
Okay, I didn’t really say that. What I really said was, “Sure.”
What can I tell you? I’m just a gal who can’t say no, except maybe to lo-fat rice cakes.
“That’s great!” he said. “I’m going home right now and start writing!”
I waved feebly as he bounded out the door. Poor Lance. He had about as much chance of selling his show as I had of fitting into a size 4 dress.
So there you have it. My thrill-a-minute home life. Featuring a cat with an eating disorder and a neighbor in shoe biz. But hey, it could have been worse. A lot worse. I could have still been married to The Blob.
I call my ex-husband The Blob because that’s what he was. The man was the original couch potato. His motto was “Never put off for tomorrow what you can put off forever.”
I stayed with The Blob for three mind-numbing years, then filed for divorce. The Blob got custody of the remote, and I got custody of the bills. I moved out of the house we were renting in Mar Vista, the one with The Blob’s car parked diagonally across our front lawn. Through a friend of Kandi’s, I managed to find my cozy apartment in Beverly Hills, where I’ve been living happily ever after with Prozac and my dear friends Ben & Jerry.
Having drained the last drop of wine from my glass, I headed for my computer to check my e-mail. I found the usual assortment of cyberspace offerings: low mortgages, instant credit, and online porn. I was particularly intrigued by a headline that promised to increase my penis by at least two inches.
The only normal e-mails I got were two letters from my parents. And I use the word “normal” advisedly. My parents are anything but. Don’t get me wrong. They’re very sweet people and I love them to pieces, but they’re never going to wind up on the cover of Good Mental Health Magazine.
Two years ago, they moved from my hometown of Hermosa Beach, California, to Tampa, Florida. Now very few people in their right mind would move from Hermosa, one of the loveliest beach towns in the Western Hemisphere, to a state that has waterbugs the size of small poodles. But my mom wanted to be near the Home Shopping Club.
I’m not kidding. She dragged my father three thousand miles across country so she could be near a shopping channel. My mother is a television shopaholic. You know those ghastly T-shirts they sell in the middle of the night, the ones with sequinned tigers plastered across your boobs? My mom has seven of them. With matching capri pants. Not to mention a drawer full of cubic zirconia rings. And enough Capodimonte to open her own curio shop.
Daddy, than
k goodness, doesn’t stay up with Mom ordering rhinestone flip-flops in the middle of the night. That’s because he’s too busy ordering Turbo Steamers. My father’s hooked on cooking appliances. My parents’ kitchen is home to the Turbo Steamer, the Wonda-Roaster, the Jet Air Cooker, and everything Ron Popeil has ever made. My father’s probably the only man in the world who shouts “Set It and Forget It!” during sex.
Yes, my parents are definitely a match made in merchandising heaven. But like I said, they’re really very sweet, and I love them to pieces when they’re not driving me crazy.
I thought about opening their e-mails, but it had been an exhausting day, and I didn’t have the energy to read about my mother’s latest cotton-poly acquisitions. I’d tackle their letters in the morning. Right now, all I wanted was a bath.
So I shut down the computer and headed for the tub, where I soaked for a good forty-five minutes, going over the events of the day.
Things hadn’t gone badly, not badly at all. True, Vanessa had been a bitch. But everyone else had been very nice. Wells Dumont had gone out of his way to tell me he liked my script. And so had Quinn Kirkland, he of the dazzling smile. Good Lord, how did he get his teeth so white, anyway? Must be one of those whitening kits. I made up my mind to pick one up the next time I was at the drugstore.
When every last nerve ending had been beaten into submission and my body was as limp as linguini, I heaved myself out of the tub and into a cotton night-shirt. I made a halfhearted attempt at running a brush through my mop of curls, then gave up and plopped into bed. I lay there, my arms and legs spread out to the four corners of the bed, and sighed with pleasure. There were definite benefits to sleeping alone. And this was one of them. I spent the rest of the evening scraping the last shards of peanut butter from the bottom of a jar and watching an old Doris Day movie on AMC, Prozac napping on my belly. Absolute heaven.
Who needed men, anyway? As somebody much smarter than me once said (it was either Gloria Steinem or Ethel Mertz, I forget who): Men are like Xerox machines. They’re good for reproduction, but that’s about it.
Yeah, right. If I was so damn happy sleeping alone, why did I spend the rest of the night dreaming about being trapped in a bathtub with Quinn Kirkland?
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
TO: Jausten
FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
SUBJECT: Have you met Kelsey Grammer?
Jaine honey, I still can’t believe it! My daughter, a sitcom writer! Have you met Kelsey Grammer yet? I hear he’s much thinner in person.
I’ve told everybody at the condo complex how you’re writing for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. By the way, my neighbor Edna’s nephew lives out in L.A. Should I give him your number? I thought I’d ask first. I know how touchy you got when I gave your phone number to that fellow I met in the Home Shopping chat room. Really, darling, I had no idea he was writing from prison. Anyhow, let me know if you want to go out with Ernie Lindstrom (that’s Edna’s nephew’s name). I think Edna said he was a fireman. Either that, or he just got fired. I forget which. Whatever he does, I’m sure he’s a lovely fellow. Edna assures me he shows no signs of the schizophrenia that runs in his family.
Everything’s fine here in Tampa. Well, not really. Actually, I’ve been worried about Daddy. He’s been acting very strange lately. Even stranger than usual. Yesterday on my way to my Jazzercise class, I could have sworn I saw him following me in his car. Oh, well. Maybe I was just imagining it.
Anyhow, I bought the most fabulous simulated emerald and cubic zirconia ring last night. A $300 value, for only $49.95! Honestly, dear, you can’t beat the bargains on TV. I wish you’d let me order you something. I saw the most adorable sequinned blazer the other day. It’s a genuine Ralph Loren. Perfect for your exciting new life in show biz.
And speaking of show biz, you’re not the only one hobnobbing with celebrities. Guess who moved into the complex? John Koskovalis! Well, that’s about it, honey. Knock ’em dead at the studio. And if you run into the gal who plays Ray’s wife on Everybody Loves Raymond, tell her I think she’s adorable!
Love from,
Mom
TO: Shoptillyoudrop
FROM: Jausten
SUBJECT: It’s Muffy, not Buffy
Hi, Mom—
I hate to break it to you and the gang at Tampa Villas, but I’m not working on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. My show is called Muffy ’n Me. And no, I haven’t met Kelsey Grammer or the gal who plays Ray’s wife on Everybody Loves Raymond. But if I should ever run into them, I’ll be sure and give them your best.
Whatever you do, do not under any circumstances give my phone number to Edna’s nephew. And thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass on the sequinned blazer. A genuine Ralph Loren, huh? Any relation to Sophia?
Hugs & kisses,
Jaine
PS. Who the heck is John Koskovalis?
TO: Jausten
FROM: Daddyo
SUBJECT: Hi, Angel Cakes!
Hi, Angel Cakes!
How’re things in Lala land? Mom tells me you’ve met Kelsey Grammer. Wow!
Last night I cooked a 7-pound chicken in just 20 minutes with my new Acu-Pressure cooker. It was quite delicious, once we scraped it off the ceiling.
Lots of kisses from your loving,
Daddy
PS. By the way, your mom is having an affair with one of the hosts from the Home Shopping Channel. Some slimeball by the name of John Koskovalis.
Chapter Four
I tried to look blasé, but I was as excited as a tourist from Des Moines. I was about to have my first lunch at the studio commissary.
I was so excited, in fact, I’d almost forgotten about that bizarre e-mail from Daddy. I suppose I should have been worried, but I wasn’t. Somehow I couldn’t picture my mother having an affair. It was like picturing Betty Crocker in a bikini. My father had to be wrong. He’d probably gotten some crazy notion in his head, like the time he was convinced our gardener was stealing lemons from our lemon tree. It turned out he was totally wrong. It was our neighbor who was stealing the lemons. So I suppose Daddy wasn’t totally wrong; after all, someone was stealing our lemons. But the gardener was blameless. Just as blameless, I was convinced, as my mother.
Which is why I barely gave Daddy’s e-mail a second thought at work that day.
Kandi and I had spent the morning with Audrey and Stan, going over next week’s script, a stirring opus called “Muffy’s Revenge,” all about what happens when Muffy turns her biology teacher into a frog.
As Kandi explained to me, sitcom writers often work on two scripts at once: the one they’re shooting that week, and the one they’re prepping for the following week. Frankly, I’d been relieved to be off the hot seat and slashing somebody else’s script to shreds. And now we were taking a well-earned lunch break at the commissary.
I’d read all about the studio commissaries of Hollywood’s golden age, deluxe eateries where mega-stars like Clark Gable and Joan Crawford mixed and mingled over Cobb salad. So you can imagine my disappointment when Kandi led me into the Miracle commissary, a shabby barn of a building with wobbly tables and scarred metal chairs. Because only two shows were in production on the lot (Muffy ’n Me and a show about a bunch of lady cops called PMS Squad), the commissary was fairly empty.
Quinn Kirkland, recent co-star of my x-rated bathtub dream, was sitting at a corner table with Wells Dumont and Dale Burton.
“Where’s Vanessa?” I wondered.
“Oh, V.D. never eats with the commoners,” Kandi said. “She usually stays in her dressing room, sharpening her fangs.”
“Hey, ladies,” Quinn called out when he saw us. “Come sit with us!”
Was it my imagination, or was he directing his heart-melting gaze at moi?
“We’ll be right there,” Kandi said, “as soon as we get our lunches.”
Kandi led me over to a dingy steam table, manned by a woman with frizzled gray hair trapped in a hairnet. Her name tag read “Helga.” A cigarette dangled fro
m her lips, periodically dropping ashes into Today’s Special. Clearly, Helga had not been informed that smoking was illegal in California eating establishments.
“What’ll it be, gals?” she croaked in a raspy voice.
The menu was straight out of Oliver Twist. Today’s Special was something optimistically called London Broil. It looked more like recycled tires to me.
“Better stick with the sandwiches,” Kandi whispered. “They come wrapped in cellophane. Guaranteed ash-free.”
“I guess I’ll have a sandwich,” I said.
Helga scratched her none-too-clean hair through her hair net.
“What kind?” she asked. “Brown or white?”
“Brown or white?”
“White’s cheese. Brown’s meat.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Beats me.”
For once in my life, I’d lost my appetite.
“I’ll have the cheese, I guess.”
“How about you, toots?” she asked Kandi.
“What the heck? I’ll go for brown.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I whispered.
“It’s safe,” Kandi assured me. “They buy the sandwiches at a supermarket.”
The old crone tossed us our sandwiches, and two cans of Diet Coke, and we joined the others.
Wells stood up as we approached the table, ever the courtly Brit.
“So nice to see you again, my dear,” he said to me, patting the empty seat next to him.
Oh, great. I dream of hot sex in a bathtub with Quinn and wind up with the Geritol Kid. I smiled weakly and sat next to him. Kandi, lucky lady, managed to snag a seat next to Quinn.
Dale Burton had his cell phone out on the table. We’d probably just missed a call from Tom Hanks.
“So, how are you enjoying your first few days on the Miracle lot?” Wells asked.