My hilarious friend Kerrie bought me a hilarious present. In November. In San Francisco. Amazingly enough, despite the number of times we’ve seen each other since then, the gift never made it into my hands. Until, that is, two weeks ago.
She got me a book. But not just any book, oh no.
This is the BESTEST PRESENT EVER!
“Odd Velvet” was added to the Harper’s Bazaar, Lucky and Elle magazine pile of things I need to read. But it didn’t stay there for long. Brimming over with excitement at the fact that someone finally wrote my biography, I cracked that puppy open and settled in for hours seconds of reading.
Naturally they began by explaining the origin of my name:
That’s funny. That’s nothing like the day of my birth at all. The way my mom tells it, she woke up and got my oldest brother off to first grade, then alerted my dad, who was at work, that she was going into labor. My dad, in a seemingly ridiculous moment to most but completely understandable to my family only, saw fit to stop at the bank first. For some reason he had my older brother with him – a very mischievous three year old with a full head of bushy 70’s Greek hair, red corduroy overalls and a penchant for eating his own poop. As my dad was checking on his fortune and belatedly mentally calculating the cost of yet another child, my brother ran up the spiral staircase of the bank, shredded a few hundred deposit slips and threw them over the balcony, showering my father and the tellers. My father, always excellent in a crisis, said, “Gotta go. Wife’s in labor.”
Unlike Mr. Smith when he goes to Washington, no one has ever been stupid enough to let me speak for two days. Though, they did allow me to say my lines when I was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz in our standing-backyard-only, much adored, Nursery School Production.
There was nothing old and dark about our house. In fact, when I was in first grade, my parents, expert schedulers of construction projects, decided to pull an entire wall off the back of our house to build a glassed in porch. In January. In Connecticut. During a season of blizzards. I can recall eating that cream of wheat crap every morning with a big sheet separating my polyester pajamaed, seven year old body, from several pedophile construction workers and the elements of a 1980 Connecticut winter.
This is turning out to be nothing like my life story at all. Now I know how Tom Cruise feels about those “unauthorized biographies.” Wait. No I don’t.
HA! My parents never asked anyone politely in the house. In fact, I can recall several confrontations with our white trash neighbors that resulted in “Stay off our property or I’ll have you arrested” declarations. Christ, who wrote this book? And I know what you are thinking. “White Trash” and “Connecticut” is as oxy of a moron as they make ’em. Yup. You’re correct if you are using the 2008 Connecticut as your barometer. But we’re talking 1984 Connecticut. It was a totally different animal back then. It was pre-Stew Leonard’s tax evasion scandal. We were still innocent. And we didn’t have nearly as many New Yorkers.
Ok. Last page. Usually the last page is the foreshadowing of things to come. Ooh. Can’t wait.
Hey. That is NOT a riding crop. It’s my jump rope. Yes. My jump rope.