Interior Monologue

Do we really want to pay three-ninety five for a tub of cantaloupe chunks? Do it, do it, throw it in the cart! Okay, but normally we get whatever they have on sale in a big bin with flies swarming around it the day before they ship it back to Tehachapi for the pigs. Don't you get it? Everything's different now! We're getting more for ten weeks' work than your average American couple brings down in six years. We're in, babe. Now pick up some nice rawhide bones for the wieners, so what if they do cost fifteen bucks a piece for scraps of freeze-dried Chilean shoe leather?

Hey, let's go pick out some of those stone crabs. And buy the Moet. Yes, the Moet. None of that Chandon crap, now, we've known very well since junior year abroad that "California champagne" is nothing but a déclassé bit of street slang. Why not pick up some of that pricey lemon garlic aioli, too, what's eight bucks and six hundred calories a teaspoon between friends? No, no, we'll make our own. "Gourmet" stuff in snotty jars usually sucks, even if it is from France.

Oh God, they're leading some guy out of Ralph's in handcuffs. He looks like a nice kid, really, a wannabe rock star who’ll strum you "Brown-Eyed Girl" on acoustic guitar for a quarter outside the Hollywood Farmer's Market. Another runaway with another dream from another Red State. Offer to buy whatever he stole, forgiving the fact that his folks voted in Doubleya. Do it! No, no, look the other way. Desperation could very well be contagious. Lord knows we don't want to catch that again. Okay, bitch, now it's too late. Rich people suck. You don't want to be a cheap rich girl like the Queen of England, do you? They say that old crone wouldn't pick up a tab if it bit her in the ass. Who says that? Andrew Morton, Sir Elton John, Mohamed al Fayed. People who know stuff.

Now they're putting the poor kid in a squad car just like the Matchbox kind he used to play with, telling him to watch his head. He's blushing now, visibly humiliated, as if hungry as hell weren't enough. Coming to Hollywood and wanting too much, that was his first mistake. Okay, now you're sad. Seriously, you could cry. There's all kinds of untapped talent itching to hit this town like an oil gusher, and yet, you can practically breathe the spillover vaporizing into the air with the morning smog. Hey, this must be Survivor's Guilt. It's hard to tell when you're Catholic and super in touch with your original sin, but yeah, it's a brand new feeling of shame, the "Why me?" kind. There’s also that little touch of Imposter Complex, as in "Uh-oh. Me?" You don't know how to write a hundred thousand dollar screenplay! Who are you kidding, Miss Fancy Pants? Let's not think about that now. Think about that tomorrow.

But don't forget the huge crate of toilet paper, the good kind that's quilted like a surprise powder puff from the rear. And buy that mother of all tampon boxes, forty bucks worth, the kind with the fancy pink applicators and the scent of a soft ocean breeze. Nothing says wealth and privilege like some gently perfumed privates. Where do they keep the goddamn Jelly Bellies already? Here we go, the big one, the party size. At ten calories a bean including the real fruit juices they're a nutritious, fat-free treat, it says so right on the jar.

Get in the pretend fancy car, wave to the fantasy crowd lining the streets, and ascend to the make believe palace. Now get out the bed tray and the ball peen hammer. Who needs a snooty nutcracker when you've got ten years of pent up hostility to direct at your crabs? Nothing wrong with shellfish and champagne in bed, Liz Taylor probably does it nightly. Music might be a classy touch, something feminist and self-righteous like the Indigo Girls. Wait, there's a hugely ironic Dateline episode on about people who surmounted long odds to make it to the top. Yup, your new hero is Joy Mangano, the divorced mom who invented the waterless mop to feed her kids and now lives in a twenty million dollar East Hampton spread just down the beach from Spielberg. Hah, the old man who dumped her for some tramp is now a lowly employee. You're totally loving that.

Stop thinking about your own ex, you haven't missed the big Croat for a good eight to ten years. Then again, he was always up for a celebration, the pricier the better. Last you heard he was body guarding for a no-name Saudi prince in Dubai. Do not get on that computer and search for the last e-mail where he claimed he'd "luff you 4ever, good Giuletta!" You always could measure how wasted he was by the quality of his spelling and grammar. Who are you to judge, you're half-crocked yourself. Yes, but never at a loss for words, darling. That's why they pay us the big bucks. The big, huge, rocking bucks!
That's it, sister, pour yourself another glass of champagne and phone in that long overdue order to HB Freaking O! Hell, get Showtime, too, and whoever's broadcasting the lady erotica starring Fabio at his peak, or perhaps a young, unknown college boy named Sly Stallone. Yup, it's good being queen, even if you are drunk, cheap and sleeping alone with the "Corgis" while some loser sits across town in a holding cell wishing he didn't have to call his father collect. Here's to you, good Giuletta. To the good life.


  1. Anonymous2:12 PM

    that is awesome. I love it.

    perhaps it's about time to stop by Whole Foods instead of Ralphs.

  2. That's right - the Good Life is yours. You busted your ass for it, and that kid has his own dreams to bust his ass for.

    But if guilt toward the "Have-Not-Yets" should ever rear its ugly head again, you can always invest in a Big-Dreams-No-Money Sitcom way up in Canuckia, you know... [large, toothy, ass-kissing-yet-surprisingly disarming grin pasted to face of dejected Canuckian Writer/Producer/Director]

  3. Chuck Loch8:46 PM

    CONGRATULATIONS!!! I always knew it would happen to you!

    P.S. Let me know what else they're looking for.

  4. Honey, have you learned nothing at all from those repeated watchings of "Sideways"? Perrier-jouet is the next step up from mere Chandon. After that, it's the Vueve Cliquot, then the Dom and THEN the Cristal.

    Enjoy the bubbly. Hopefully, next time you'll be sharing it with someone other than the pooches, now that you're in demand and all!

  5. Anonymous2:58 AM

    Madam, you're drunk! And I'm ugly. But you'll be rich and famous in the morning. Congrats! We all knew it was just a matter of time.


  6. If I had been drinking coffee, the scented privates line would have had coffee all over the pbook this morning.

  7. I hope you brought enough Jelly Bellies for everyone, young lady.

  8. Arrgh. I hate to say this. But.
    Then get a good accountant. From a Big Firm. Take his advice, even if it hurts. Since this is first in an ever increasing line of Big Things, you'll need him more later than now. But even if it isn't, you need him now.

  9. Anonymous12:58 PM


    Congratulations!!! I've been following your journey through your blog, with occasional updates from Anonymous. I'm delighted to see that you're "in." DOn't stop blogging - I so look forward to it!

    Jennifer K.

  10. What anonymous said.

    Best wishes and all the Merlot you can stand!

    Please keep blogging! i love reading about your experiences!

  11. Anonymous6:10 PM

    How much for a box of tampons?! That sure is bulk buying.

    The "why me?" thoughts prove that you're sane. If they ever get too loud, read a chapter, heck no, read a page of 'High Concept.'

  12. Yes, do switch to Whole Foods.

    You can blow some serious cash in there and come out with one teeny little bag.

  13. Thanks for all your advice and support. I do have the greatest readers in the blogosphere. While it is hard to take financial advice from a guy who identifies so closely with Fred Flinstone, I am hearing you all and loving it.

    Anon, the good tampons are about ten bucks unless you have a coupon. A girl never knows when she'll fall on hard times, so yeah, I'm good to go through summer.

  14. Can a personal assistant be far away. Enjoy!!!

  15. ...from a guy who identifies so closely with Fred Flinstone

    You know, I never thought of that. The perception thing.
    But you never saw Fred sweatin' the rent, or car payment, or trip to the drive-in for a slab of dino-ribs. I'm just sayin. The man was either making some serious rocks, or had a plan.

  16. Anonymous12:41 AM

    Congrats, but don't change a thing, you will lose your edge and your identity.

  17. Being alone at night makes me sad, girl
    Yeah, it brings me down all right
    Tossing and turning and freezing and burning
    And crying all through the night


    "Julie, Julie, Julie, do you love me?
    Julie, Julie, Julie, do you care?
    Julie, Julie, are you thinking of me?
    Julie, Julie, will you still be there?
    We had so much fun together
    I was sure that you were mine
    But leaving you, baby, is driving me crazy
    It's got me wondering all the time..."

    (Lyrics: Tom Bahler)
    Bobby Sherman

    The Gainfully-Employed Julie is missed by her fans. I know you're busy. I'm sure you're having a ball (if you're not self-afflictedly snatched bald by now in frustration). But, DAMN, we could all use an update!

  18. I still haven't got my jellybean.