Nuts

I saw the movie Enchanted. It was enchanting. Lovely. Very Disney. It's the kind of movie that makes me want to jump from a very tall building. Or go out in a row boat on a day when there are "small craft warnings". And this is all because everyone in the movie lives happily ever after. Except the wicked witch, of course. Susan Sarandon played that role with her head held high so the "neck" thing wouldn't happen. She was good. And her neck looked great.

I remember when I was a girl and would go see Cinderella or Snow White or any of those girly movies with the singing birds and friendly squirrels and I wondered even then if that actually happened anywhere in the universe. Where things just turned out oh so wonderful. I could not imagine that. Didn't really like those girly pictures. And right now, at the end of The Year of The Shit, I sort of know by experience that happily ever after land only happens for about one percent of the population. There are no singing birds, no friendly squirrels. Although there is one in my yard that comes by everyday but I think if I gave him a nut he would bite off my finger. But maybe I'm just paranoid. And maybe I'm just being negative. Maybe women are singing and sewing and having a grand old time scrubbing their floors and donning taffeta dresses for dinner and the men are bringing flowers home every night and lovelovelove every meal that is cooked for them and just think she is prettiest thing he's ever seen even though she's getting older and she sweats a lot and can't sleep at night and he spends half the night peeing. But it's happilyeverafterville for them and whistle while you work and life is just one big celebration everyday.

Maybe that is happening somewhere. On Main Street in Springfield. And maybe I just have to look at a map to find out where that is. Maybe I took a wrong turn somewhere. Got off on the wrong offramp. Maybe I will give that squirrel a nut.

Next week I begin the final separation. The prequel to The Big Divorce. I keep thinking about those Siamese Twins they separate. They have to decide who gets the heart, who gets the liver and worst of all, who gets the possibility of a long life. Sometimes they have to decide that. The weaker one usually goes first. I hope I am not the weaker one. I am armed with requests. I know what I want. And in a funny way I'm looking forward to this. I feel like I have one more tube hanging from my body and it has to be cut off right now and that tube is my marriage. The marriage tube. The one that sucked the life right out of me. But I hooked myself up to an IV of "I am not going to let him do this to me" and in a few months I was back to normal, full of the life that was taken away from me with the added bonus of seeing the world through single covered glasses. And I like it. So what could go wrong next week? I've already lost most of my stomach and I can't eat oranges and he hasn't lost anything yet so I feel like I'm ahead of this game. Maybe I'll have it put in writing that he can't eat oranges either. Or garlic. Yeah, that should get him. You're supposed to "get him" when you get divorced, right? You're supposed to rip out his heart and his wallet. Oh, I've got to grow fangs over this weekend. Read books about ruthless women. Buy some high heeled boots.

A crow is laughing at me outside the window. All the crows in the Disney films were always evil. Hmmmm. Maybe it is time to get some taffeta and a ribbon for my hair. Where is that little happy squirrel when I need him?

Assisted Leaving

Someone told me that the man formerly known as my husband met the parents of his girlfriend. He's sixty. So are they. And I started thinking that this poor girl is going have to put both her parents and her boyfriend into assisted living at the same time. Will they share a room? Will they like the same TV shows? I hope they don't get their blood pressure pills mixed up. And then I started wondering, which one will need a hearing aid first? Hmmmm. Thick glasses. Which one will be more cranky than the others? Oh, I hope I live long enough to see this. I have always wanted to die laughing.

And speaking of death...I was talking about the D word and afterlife with a friend the other day. She has a strong belief in an afterlife. And I think that's great. But here is what confuses me...There are so many different religions and each one is convinced that they know what is going to happen after we die. Some feel that if you don't accept Jesus you don't have a chance in hell for a happy afterlife. Well, I guess you have a chance in hell. However there are others who believe in heaven for the good and hell for the bad and some think they will be reincarnated and there are, of course, those 72 virgins that await those that kill themselves and the infidel at the same time. So, are one of those religions right? And does that mean that everyone else is wrong? Makes me think that one should believe in EVERYTHING, just in case. Maybe I should accept Jesus, whom I'm sure was a great guy so why not? And how is everyone so sure they are right? Have they talked to someone who has already been there and back? Ah...I don't think so. It's just all in their heads. At this point, at this moment in my life I believe in this point and this moment. How could I not? It's too fantastic. But I may change, you never know. If I get a chance to be aware that I am going to die at any moment I may just look to the skies and proclaim that I want to come back as a whale. Can you do that with reincarnation? Choose your next self? I just don't have a strong feeling about those 72 virgins.

Cate Blanchett...Oh my God does she knock that Bob Dylan thing out of the ballpark. That was so cool. I loved that movie but I don't think it's for everyone. You really have to know way too much about Bob Dylan, which unfortunately I do, but I just thought I'm Not There was full of passion and energy and not a studio person saying, "Oh, but it should be more upbeat, have a really happy ending and do you really think this movie makes any sense?"

There are some people who think that a year from now I will be all back to normal. Be able to eat a normal meal and feel like a normal person and not almost faint after I eat breakfast. Not going to happen. I will not get any better than I am now but I'm getting used to it. Can't eat oranges or tomatoes ever again, nothing spicy, no pepper or garlic. No fruit juice. But the one thing I will be able to do more is swim and do yoga again. Can't wait. It doesn't really bother me. The other day I bought a hand lotion that smelled like oranges because I used to love oranges and I miss them. But hey, I'm here and I had a great weekend eating my tiny piece of turkey without cranberry sauce and I was sitting next to my son who is the apple of my eye (what the hell does that mean?) so what more could I ask for.

How did they come up with SEVENTY TWO virgins? Why not fifty four? Or ten. Wouldn't ten be enough? Well, maybe not enough to blow yourself up. Maybe you actually need 72 as an inncentive.

Dick Cheney has an irregular heart beat. Are we surprised? I'm just surprised he has a heart at all.

James

I was going to devote this blog to giving thanks but first I have to rant about Gay Talese. For those who do not know him, he is a writer. So I'm reading a magazine while getting my vitamins (which are working, by the way, Mr. Insurance Company genius who does not believe in vitamins!) and I came upon an article about the recently departed Norman Mailer. And Mr. Talese said, (something like), "Norman, like many great men, had his dark side. Men like Picasso, Hemingway and Sinatra. But Norman was a great man and loved to talk to regular people." And by "dark side" Mr. Talese was referring to the fact that he was abusive to women. HELLO............He STABBED his second wife! The second of six wives. And he had something like nine children and I'll bet he was as close to them as Rudy Guilliani is to his kids. Norman Mailer was an asshole, Mr. Talese. If he had murdered someone would you say he had a "dark side but he liked to talk to cab drivers"? He abused women and he stabbed one. And you're okay with that? Oh my gosh, I almost popped my IV.

And while we're talking about women, I was watching 3:10 To Yuma and there are all these guys with very interesting character faces and TWO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN with perfect makeup even though they are in the Wild West and it's dusty and all the guys are dirty. Where are the interesting dusty dirty girls? I am so sick of the beautiful quirky gal. But hey, it's a man's world which really makes me want to vote for Hilary even though I'm not crazy about her but say anything you want...She is not a man...Sort of...

But I love men and I am here to give thanks. First, I would like to thank Spike Lee for giving us really good movies. I think that guy is terrific.

Does that seem superficial? I mean I'm alive, I've had cancer...And Spike Lee is the most I can be thankful for?

No, James Taylor. He was playing when my son was born. He was playing when I met the man formerly known as my husband and he was playing when that same man left me for another woman. So I guess James Taylor is the soundtrack of my life. Shower With People. How profound is that?

Still too shallow?

Hey, I love trees and the ocean and my dog and I am so pissed off about what happened to me in the last year and I am putting way to much pressure on January first 2008 and I have absolutely no hope that anything good will ever happen to me again or that there will ever be peace on Earth and I am severely parched from the drought and I am sick of IVs and doctors and this was the lousy year to end all lousy years and I can't believe I can't eat cranberry sauce, which I love, because it has too much sugar in it and I ate another hot dog today because the guy's cart is right across from where I get my vitamin drip and I dislike a lot more people than I thought I did and I miss my stomach even though we always had a troubled relationship and getting back to the hot dog, it stayed with me this time.

So, in conclusion, I am very thankful for the hot dog man.

And life goes on and people perform their rituals like Thanksgiving and we truly are the lucky ones.

God bless Bangladesh.

No Idea Who I Am

So I'm driving down Pico Boulevard today and I suddenly make a screeching stop outside of a BestBuy store. For those of you who don't live in LA, BestBuy is one of those stores where you can buy a refrigerator or a CD or a pen. But I did not want to go inside of BestBuy. What stopped me was a hot dog cart. A regular old New York hot dog cart. And I'm thinking, I can't eat a hot dog. It's going to make me unbelievably ill. What, am I crazy?

"Can I please have a hot dog? Not too spicy."
"What do you want on it?"
"The works."

Maybe I just wanted to say, "the works", but I ordered the little wiener with everything on it and I got back into my car and I ate the sucker. Oh man, it was soooo good. I could only eat half of it, of course, but it was fantastic. I can't even remember the last time I had a hot dog on the street. So I finished and I wiped off my hands and I sat in the car until the moment when I knew I was going to throw up. And there I was at BestBuy with wonderfully clean rest rooms and I ran in and did the job and when I finished I was so happy that I had eaten that hot dog. The surgeon told me that this would happen. That I would eat things even though I knew they would make me sick but I wouldn't care because for two minutes it would feel great and that's what really mattered. That's why a lot of people get pregnant. Probably, I could have done without the relish.

I drove into an underground garage and I pulled to the side to let someone pull out of their slot and a woman in the world's most gigantic car (I think bigger than that Hummer) pulled around me and took the damn slot! Her car was something called a Cayenne and it seems to be a Porsche SUV. It's the kind of car that says, "Fuck you I'm rich and I can do anything I want and I'm going to take this space BECAUSE I CAN and I don't give a shit about you and your stupidass politically correct Prius!"

So I gave her the space with no argument because it did not seem worth losing another hot dog over a parking space. But then later I'm coming out of the underground lot and I stop to make sure no cars are coming around the corner and a man in a really beat up unrecognizable older car comes barreling through a stop sign and his misses me by a minute. And his car was the kind that said, "Fuck you I'm poor and I can do anything I want because I was given a raw deal in life and I'm going to drive however I want to BECAUSE I CAN and you are driving some kind of fancy Hybrid thingie you asshole you and you have insurance so why should I care what you think?"

The other night I watched a movie with Julie Christie and a really good male actor whose name I can't remember and I can't remember the name of the movie either. In it Julie Christie has alzheimers. I'm certainly glad I can remember HER name. It was the world's saddest movie. If you had a choice between watching that movie and sticking pencils in your eyes, I would go for the pencils. No, it was good. Maybe it's too close to what could be my home but I'm watching and wondering, "Why am I watching this? I should be laughing. I should be thinking about happy things. Little polar bears and puppies and stuff. Not, oh my god Julie Christie is old but thank goodness she didn't have any surgery and if she did it's not working anymore but she's still pretty and so what if she can't remember anything, she's pretty and her hair looks cool."

My infection is still here. Better, but still here. I have chosen to ignore it until after Thanksgiving. Ah, turkey, stuffing. What a great holiday where you eat until you explode. I explode when I eat half a hot dog so I can't wait to see what happens when I eat stuffing. And this is going to be the really hard part...I cannot lie down after dinner...After any meal. I have to sit up due to my new plumbing. Lie down and it's just an invitation to disaster. But two bites of turkey and I'm out like a light. Maybe they could tie me to my chair and I could fall asleep sitting up.

And you think I'm kidding.

Speaking of chairs, I've been meaning to put in a little holiday DeNiro story...The first time I was with him in the Biblical sense...(I never quite know what that means. The Biblical sense. Seems like it should be the opposite of what it means. Maybe it doesn't mean what I think it means. But you know what I mean, right?)

Anyway, the first time that I was with him it involved a chair in the middle of the room..................

What? You think I was going to give you more details? Children read this blog. Use your imagination.

I did.

Twenty Five Sides of Beef and Fifty Hasidic Jews

Some people say there are two sides to every story. I say there are two sides to every story and one side is bullshit.

I went to a triple A baseball game once in Arizona. They were giving away a side of beef to the first twenty five people who arrived. People were sitting in their seats with, I swear, sides of beef as big as small horses. Thank goodness it was a night game.

I went for my second vitamin drip today. Interesting crowd. Not everyone is there for vitamins. Some get something called chelation therapy and I think that is for people who have had heart problems. All new fangled stuff and I personally am willing to believe in almost anything. There was a very handsome fellow there in a wheelchair. Very handsome. He was 51 years old. I know that because he told me that 33 years ago when he was 18 he dove into a pool on Martha's Vineyard and broke his back. His hands were all curved and he was sort of stooped over in his chair but there he was with a big handsome smile on his face taking some sort of IV drip. I hope I see him again.

Then there was a young girl, couldn't have been more than 26. If I had to label her I would say she was a goth. Dyed black hair. Very, very pale skin. And no eyebrows. And I realized that this young girl had had cancer and lost her eyebrows. And her paleness was from much chemo. She was so beautiful. So cool. So was used to getting IVs put into her body. It is an amazing thing being in the "sick" world. I see so many people who take it so casually. Do not make a big deal out of it. It's what is happening and there you have it. This girl ate pistachios and drank water and listened to her IPod and I think she said she was going to be there for four hours and she did this two times a week. Wow. I just thought, wow. And this handsome guy in the wheelchair who was probably amazingly handsome at 18 and there he was smiling and dealing with the biggest bummer I can think of and I sit here half the time thinking poor me and what a raw deal I was given but I can walk and I have friends and I'm not 26 with cancer and I'm not in Pakistan right now and I should be shot every time I complain. Or tweaked or something.

And here is the best news of the day. I HAVE AN INFECTION! I am so excited because I was feeling like shit and I thought, okay, this is it, the big casino, I'm outta here but I went to my surgeon who took out the feeding tube and I showed him the "hole" (pardon my language) where it had been and he said that my hole was infected. ( I am so sorry but there is no delicate way to put that.) The hole in my stomach, you know. And I thought, hallelujah, I'm not going to die I just have to take antibiotics.

When I woke up this morning the fingernails on my left hand were blue and because I wasn't feeling so well I thought this must be the first body part to decay as you take the long walk to the end of the tunnel but then I realized that I had bought a pair of pajama bottoms at Target and I didn't wash them and the dye had come off on my fingernails in the middle of the night. You should have seen my legs. And the bottoms, of course, were made in China. So I jumped immediately into the shower to wash off the poison and it took FOREVER to get rid of it. Oh God, after all this I'll probably die from a pair of poison pajama bottoms.

But you gotta laugh. It's all so ridiculous that you gotta laugh. And the people who got those sides of beef also got an extra seat...For their beef...I got on an airplane once going from New York to LA and it was full of Hasidic Jews. And when I got to my seat I could not sit down because it was taken up by a Torah. I asked the nice Jew if he would please move his Torah. He wouldn't. I asked him again nicely if he'd please put it in the overhead compartment. No. "But it's my seat!" No, it was his Torah's seat so I had to call the stewardess who got into a big fight with the little man and she finally picked up the Torah and carried it up to the cockpit with the little man following her all the way up front and yelling something in Hebrew. So the Torah spent the flight in the cockpit and I had to sit next to a very angry man with strange hair. Surprise, he ordered a kosher meal that looked exactly like my meal but I didn't say anything except, "How's your food?" To him I was invisible. I was in his Torah's seat. At one point during the flight I looked up and fifty Hasidic Jews were starring daggers at me.

I don't know why I thought of that. Guess the antibiotic is working.

The Drip at The Drip

A long time ago I was hit by a car. I was riding my bicycle on Santa Monica Blvd. and Doheny and a man took a wrong turn and knocked me unconscious. The man was a guy named Clifford Irving. Richard Gere played him in a move last year called Hoax. Never saw it. Mr. Irving pretended to know Howard Hughes and wrote a fake book about him. Anyway, I had four fractures in my pelvis and a bunch of torn ligaments in my knee and I was walking around the hospital trying out my new cast that went from my hip to my ankle and I limped right into Groucho Marx who was also walking around the corridors only he was smoking a cigar which I'm sure was not allowed but who was going to stop Groucho? Without missing a beat he took one look at me and said, "What's a nice "goil" like you doing in a place like this?" I told him what had happened to me and told him I was in a theater company and he tipped his beret and said, "Ah, the theater." and then continued down the hall and into his room. I could hear a very loud nurse demanding that he snuff out his cigar. I could hear him singing her a song. He was cute. It was Groucho. And for a few days after that I actually thought it was very cool to live in LA.

The Vitamin Drip. I loved it. The doctor told me it would probably absorb right into my body and I wouldn't feel the effects of the drip until I went in a few times. But for a couple hours after the drip I felt like a normal person and that was heaven. So, I am at once addicted. However, as Gilda said, it's always something, isn't it? So there I am in the drip room. Sort of like the chemo room with barcaloungers set up in a circle and little tables next to them with bells on them to ring for the nurse if something goes wrong. Kathleen the nurse got me all set up and I must say did a great job of finding my vein which is not an easy task and I settled in to read my book for the hour and half drip time and then HE walked in. A guy named David. He was there for some other kind of drip and he started talking to Kathleen before he even sat down and did not stop FOREVER and OhmyGod I learned waaaaay too much about David. He's the brother of a guy on NPR whom I won't mention in case you know him and he sells pianos and he was in a band (which he swears is the best band EVER even though no one has ever heard of them) and he liked my shoes which I'd gotten at Shoe Pavilion and I swear when she put in his IV he talked even faster and I wondered what he was taking and what he had and maybe he was there because he had some kind of wierd talking disease. And, of course, I couldn't read my book because he was TOO LOUD and I tried to close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere else but he had one of those booming voices and I could only imagine myself trapped in an elevator with a very loud man and that didn't seem like a calm place to go so I decided to join in the conversation. "Tall me about your pianos." And that answer took about forty minutes and ended up being about the middle East (What is he talking about!!) and then finally this sweet lady came in for her drip and Kathleen had to tend to her and I swear, the MINUTE, and I mean the minute she stepped away from his chair he FELL ASLEEP! He was out cold in a matter of seconds.

And as I sat there for the last ten minutes of my drip I started wondering if everyone in the universe was ANNOYING or was I just a magnet for annoying people. Or was I an intolerant asshole. And then I thought that maybe I should live in some remote part of the world where there wouldn't be people to get in the way of your drip. But I doubted there actually were drips in Greenland or Iceland but on the other hand maybe I would be able to meditate and clear my mind in Greenland and just feel the moment and who would need a vitamin drip? Oh my God I hate recovery. It's really so much better when you're preparing for the operation and thinking optimistic thoughts because in recovery you see how things really are and sometimes they are just not so much fun. Now I can't blame David for everything but maybe I will because you have to blame someone. I have my next drip on Tuesday and already I'm anxious. Do you think possibly that this is how I got cancer in the first place? I should have relaxed when I had the chance.

And The Secret Word is..............."Breathe".

Gouda Things are Happening

I lied. I fibbed. I embellished the situation to enhance the story. I said that the hunchbacked woman in the respiratory doctor's office had a purse full of strong cheese.

Wrong. That would be me. She did have something in her bag that had a vile smell but I have to admit that I am the one that now carries cheese in her purse. In case I get hungry. It is not, however, what I would call stinky cheese. It's Havarti or Swiss and sometimes Muenster. I would say it only gets stinky if I forget that I put it there and I don't remember until a couple days later and I pull out my ATM card and it smells like a mild Gouda. And here's the odd thing. Before my operation, I never ate cheese. I don't know, maybe I have a stomach the size of a mouse. But I wake up and all I want is cheese. And then sometimes I get all caught up on what kind I should have. I stand there with the fridge door wide open and stare at the cheese bin for way too long and realize that my life has taken a very peculiar turn. I used to have a fridge full of food that I would fix for my family's dinner. I told you that I didn't really learn how to cook until I was around forty and I got some things down pat. Salmon, pasta, turkey meatloaf. The basics. And I would light candles every night and we would eat at the kitchen table and I think dinner was pretty good because everyone ate it and now my fridge is pretty much just full of cheese. How did this happen?

But you know what...I'm feeling a bit better and I'm thinking I should kind of move beyond cheese. I am taking that as a good sign. That maybe, just maybe, I'm moving on to THE NEXT STAGE!

I'm very excited about something I'm going to do today and I think I'm actually a little too excited but, hey, it's at least something new and it has the POSSIBILITY of making me feel real good. And that would be a change. Something to actually make me feel good. I can almost not imagine. But here it is...Today's feel good possibility...I am going to get a two hour IV drip of...

VITAMINS! Doesn't that sound just fab/gear? But I'm thinking maybe it will give me that boost I need. And even though it involves a needle, I am so excited!

Oh, this is pathetic, isn't it? I used to get excited if I got a part in a TV show or if I got a job writing for something and I'd get excited if my son had a great day at school and now I'm excited about vitamins. I'm really trying to explore my inner self and just appreciate what my little lump of flesh is all about but there is this part in the back of my brain that keeps wanting, above all else, for Oprah to choose my book that isn't even written. Would that make me as excited as taking vitamins?

I went to a meditation group Sunday night. To try and calm down and get to that "inner self". See, this healing process is not an easy thing for someone who is used to running around and doing things and having every minute planned. So I tend to drive myself crazy and I really felt that evening that I needed to calm down in some way so I went to this group. Really sweet people. No bullshit. No guru leader who followers are in love with. Just a nice quiet room and people meditating. I actually sat for forty five minutes, with about five minutes of walking meditation. My eyes were closed, and I sat in a comfortable position and nothing moved except MY BRAIN. My brain was going crazy..."What should I eat for dinner? I've got to work on my novel. I think my foot's asleep. I hate him. He's an asshole. I've got to work on my novel. Wonder what Will is doing. Should I get my hair colored before Thanksgiving? Do I have anymore of that cheese dip at home? Got to work on that novel. Dare I eat a potato chip? I've got to change my sheets..."

And on and on my thoughts went so by the end of the meditation I was exhausted. Everyone else was calm and their eyes were sort of glazed over and I was a nervous wreck. I felt worse than when I got there. I think I'm doing something wrong. Oh my God, I think my entire life is just one big mistake.

But these vitamins are going to change everything. Right? Where am I? Who am I? What the hell happened? Gouda. I need some Gouda. Yes. That is what I need. Gouda will fix everything.

See, I am getting better. You'd tell me the truth, right? I don't seem...strange to you in anyway, do I? If you could just hand me my purse.........................

Wallflower at the Emmys

One of my legs is shorter than the other. I can never remember which one it is until I put on my pants and one hem is longer than the other. It's not by much. Just a sixteenth of an inch or so. I once knew a man named Lou Korn and one of his legs was six inches shorter than the other one and he wore a special shoe with a six inch sole. And he still limped. Every once in a while I have a nightmare about Lou Korn. I don't think he was a bad man but when you're a little girl a man with a big shoe can be very scarey.

As of today I am on strike. Oh, what a difference that is going to make in my life. NOT. All that is going to happen for me is that I'm just going to get older during the writer's strike so they'll have even more reason not to hire me when the strike is over. But I'm going to picket. Nice way to get some fresh air. Meet the people who are taking my jobs. But, you know, maybe they're right, those young, brilliant show runners. Maybe a middle aged female comedy writer cannot possibly exist. Because how on earth could a middle aged woman actually be funny? Yuck. Just the thought of a middle aged woman trying to write a joke is just such a turn off. Your mother saying something funny? Come on, we all know dads are much funnier. And the sitcoms on TV right now? Aren't you just on the floor laughing your brains out? And don't you just know that when Tina Fey turns forty she is instantly going to be so UNFUNNY. Just like that. Must be some kind of chemical thing. Like menopause. Funnypause. Happens in an instant to women.

Thirteen years ago I was left alone at the Emmy Awards after party for two hours. This was when the man formerly known as my husband was having an affair with a TV executive. (I know there's a joke about having an affair with a TV executive but I can't think of what it is right now.) The people at our table were the people who worked on a show called I'll Fly Away. They were nominated for some awards but didn't win any. David Chase ran the show. He kept asking me where my husband was and I kept saying he was in the bathroom. At half an hour away I said he must not feel well. At an hour away I thought maybe he had food poisoning. But at two hours away I realized he was in a bathroom somewhere shtooping this TV executive. At the time this executive was in her late twenties. The formerly man was in his late forties. Now I think I could go out with someone twenty years younger than I am but whenever I'm with someone twenty years younger I always feel like a mom, like I should tell them to button their sweater or eat their vegetables. There are certain differences between men and women and they become clearer with conversation.

Like...I was talking to a man whom I'd had a tiny crush on. This conversation happened about two weeks after the formerly man left me for the younger version.

"I did not leave you for her."
"No?"
"No, I left you because I was very unhappy. With you."
"But you spent most of last year telling me how much you were falling love with her and you told me all about HER unhappy marriage and you were leaving poems you wrote to her and about her on the dining room table."
"So?"
"And the minute you left you were calling her and making plans."
"So?"
"And you took her to Paris a few months later."
"So?"

Anyway, so I was talking to this guy two weeks after the SHOCK and his first question was...
"How many people have you slept with?"

I'd only been separated for two weeks. And I'd been married for twenty three years.

"So?"

Why is it that these guys always think "So?" is the perfect response? Sooooooooo, I certainly am not about to hop into bed with just anyone. And truthfully, I could not imagine hopping into bed at all right now. How could I even think about sex when I was devastated and lost and trying to figure out what happened.

"That's the perfect time to think about sex. What else is there to think about? I mean, come on, I can maybe go one week without it but two weeks? Don't do this to yourself."

And this guy was sixty seven years old. And he'd split up with his wife the year before and from what he told me he had slept with, like, dozens of women. Like dozens.

So when he left that night I was feeling like a total loser, a eunuch, and I went online and found the most horrible pornographic sight I could find and tried to see if I still alive...Down there...And I was, sort of...But it didn't seem right and I called my friend and he said...

"Good. This is good."
"Why is this good?"
"I'm going to find you someone to sleep with."
"But I don't want to sleep with anyone. I'm just getting over my failed marriage. I couldn't get into it."
"What are you talking about. What's to get into. You just do it."

And see, there's the difference. Men...You just do it. Women...Gotta have a reason to just do it. For instance, I think this guy's funny.

So it's a year later and I'm sure my friend has now slept with another 240 women and I won't tell you what I have done but let's just say I haven't met that many funny guys yet.

However, now with the writer's strike I certainly know where to look.