Part the Fourth: I (Re-)Discover the Eternal Truth that I am a Total Dork

The last time I was in London was the summer of 1982, with a bunch of other 16-year-old girls from my private school (one of whom was Mando Mama, whose excellent blog, For the Love of Bluegrass (it's not just about music; she's an interesting chick, as always), is linked to the right), a suicidal alcoholic nun, and her lay-teacher lesbian lover (heh, I said "lay"). Thriller had just come out, and David Bowie's "China Girl" was my favorite song.

Eh, I don't expect much has changed since then, do you?

You know, I jest, but the truly frightening thing is that 16-year-old girls are dressing EXACTLY THE SAME now as we did back then. Leggings, big shirts, off-the-shoulder Flashdance shirts.....someone get me my Geritol.

I wasn't really worried about being in London, though; I've lived in New York City for the last 18 years (with a couple of VERY ill-conceived hiatuses......hiati?), so big cities don't scare me. I know a lot of English people and have no trouble with even the thickest regional accent, and I'm accustomed to lots of walking and navigating public transportation alone. So when I got off the plane at Heathrow, I hauled ass New York style though Customs, got my suitcase (only one suitcase! Only 3 pairs of shoes besides the ones I had on! I am pared down to my ESSENCE, bithez!), and dragged everything over to the money-changing booth.

One thing that has changed since 1982? Invention of the ATM. Instead of bothering to change the $60 I had in my wallet, the guy helpfully suggested I save it for the trip back and just use the ATM. Excellent idea.

Except where's my ATM card?

I can be a flake about a lot of other things, but I'm one of those people who ALWAYS puts her ATM/debit card back in its slot when I'm finished with it. So when I opened my wallet and the slot was empty, I had that whooshing feeling of the floor dropping out from under me. Or like the Camera of Life had suddenly done a super-fast reverse zoom and instead of being in close-up I was now a tiny speck on a satellite shot of Planet Earth.

I had stayed up practically all night before my flight, hoping to be tired enough to sleep on the plane, but the turbulence ensured that didn't happen, so instead I got something like 40 seconds of sleep alternating with eight minutes of heart-pounding terror for over six hours, and my brain was kind of fried. (OK, I MIGHT have been also slightly hung over.) Michael and I had gone out the night before, hadn't we? Where? Did I use the ATM and leave my card in the machine? Did someone steal it? Since it's a debit card, it could be used like a regular credit card for purchases. Some teenaged thug is probably buying a fucking Xbox or whatever it is young people buy with my money right now!

Then I remembered we'd been at Merchant's, on the Upper East Side. I had a couple of martinis, and our pal Tori was bartending. I must have left my card in the little pleather folder after I paid the bill. Shit.

SHIT! MY ONLY SOURCE OF MONEY IS ON ANOTHER CONTINENT!!!1!!![eleven]!!1!

Thank god I remembered to call my cell phone company before I left and make sure my phone would work over here. (Yeah, I was really fastidious about all the details....except REMEMBERING MY FUCKING DEBIT CARD.) I called and reported the card lost, just in case I hadn't left it at Merchant's -- though even if I had, I wasn't going to be back in town for over a week, so better to cancel it, I guess.

I called Gilly and he assured me he could float me for the week. Still, I felt that awful feeling of being utterly dependent on someone else for money. I've lived completely on my own since I was 20, with no parental safety net (well, unless I wanted to move to Ohio or Arizona and actually live under the same roof with one of them. Gah, please, I feel ill enough already).

Part the Third: I Cross the Atlantic Like an Enormous Pussy

I hate to fly. I don’t let that keep me from traveling, but I really hate turbulence. I don’t believe all the people who tell me condescendingly that it is just like bumps in the road. Bumps in the effing road do not involve drops of HUNDREDS OF FEET in THIN AIR, people. Delude your placid selves all you wish; we are in a pressurized metal tube hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, and when I’m getting tossed around like Jiffy Pop, I’M JOLLY WELL GOING TO BE NERVOUS.

Right?

I used to deal with my fear of flying by getting loaded and carrying my bear, Gerard Manley Bear (SHUT UP I LOVED HOPKINS IN THE '80s), with me. Once I was boarding a plane and a pilot called out cheerfully, “Oh, a Scare Bear!” Yeah, just fly the plane, smartass. But after 9/11 I found that whenever I traveled, I seemed to be the one “randomly” singled out to be frisked. And then when I flew to Pittsburgh with Michael last year I was too embarrassed to bring the bear, and you know what? Didn’t get frisked. I AM A VICTIM OF FURRY PROFILING. Seriously. Drunken white woman clutching lavender bear = terrorist? OK, whatever. So I’ve developed another technique. I sing to myself. Quietly, OK? It’s rare that anyone around me, even the person next to me, can hear it. It regulates my breathing and focuses my panicky brain and muscles on something else. The only thing that works, though, is the score of My Fair Lady. (London cast, 1959) I sing all the vocal parts and all the orchestral parts that fill the spaces. I sing it from the first notes of the Overture through the instrumental reprise of “I Could Have Danced All Night” at the end. Then I start again with the overture. Of course, if it’s not bumpy, I stop, but I pick up where I left off if it gets choppy again.

In the lounge at JFK I had a very good sign: Lea Delaria playing Ms. PacMan. And she got on my flight. I call that a Lucky Celebrity: The plane can’t go down; Lea Delaria’s on it! (And don’t talk to me about that poor Yankee pitcher. (A) He was flying his own stupid prop plane, the kind I would NEVER get on, and (B) the only celebrities that count are those who’ve been mentioned in the Arts & Leisure section of the Sunday Times.) Plus, as we boarded the pilot announced that he expected a smooth flight all the way. I didn’t even order a cocktail when the beverage cart came by.

Under Actors’ Equity rules I should be paid for a week’s work, because on the way to London I sang My Fair Lady in its entirety six times. It was a very bumpy flight, and what pissed me off the most was that I was totally LULLED by the boarding announcement. Do you just make this shit up, Captain Liar L. McLiarson? At least the flight attendants were friendly. One of them even stopped to chat with me when she saw how white-knuckled I was. And she assured me that turbulence is just like bumps in the road.

Anyway, we finally landed, shaken and stirred, and on the way off the plane I had to brush right by Lea Delaria, and I thanked her for being my Lucky Celebrity and explained the concept to her, which cracked her up. And now whenever I see her again I can be all, “Hi, Lea! We were on that flight to London together, remember?" And she'll be all, "Yeah! Wasn’t that pilot a total fucking Liar?!” And we'll laugh and laugh and laugh.

Part the Second: I Invite Myself to a Very Posh Ceremony

FADE BACK IN TO THE PRESENT. I turned 40 this year. I also got (amicably) divorced from Jay. And I’m seeing a wonderful, fabulous guy (Michael) who’s still MOST INCONVENIENTLY slightly married to someone else, so no big significant-other-thrown party for me. How to celebrate my big birthday?

Then I got an email from Gilead in September announcing that his application for Silk had been accepted. “Silk” or “taking silk” is shorthand for being appointed to Queen’s Counsel, which is the highest honor a barrister can receive. It’s marked by a ceremony where all the silks wear long (“full-bottomed”) wigs, knee breeches, patent leather pumps, and silk robes (as opposed to the woolen ones worn by junior barristers, hence the term silks for the QCs). [God bless Wikipedia!] There’s lots of bowing and an individual declaration of something or other by each silk, and a procession to receive the letters conferring the title — it’s like a combination Moonie wedding and graduation. The ceremony was to take place on Monday, October 16, and then a week full of parties, culminating with Gilead’s own party on Friday the 20th.

Yes! A week of free Champagne and canapés, with the added bonus of making fun of English people and their crazy legal system! I responded to his email:

I AM SO TOTALLY COMING

and he was actually totally excited about the prospect of having me there. They're allowed to have two guests at the ceremony, and his friend Hannah was going to be one, so I could be the other. (Gilly has lots of female friends, some of whom he’s dated, some not. Hannah’s one of the nots. He told me later, though, that he divides all his female friends into two categories: Former Girlfriends and Future Girlfriends. Oh, and then me.)

And to be honest, I was feeling what I’ve come to call Extreme Mistress Fatigue. When Michael and I met, we were both married to other people, but agreed that both marriages were essentially over. I don’t have kids, and Jay and I were already living apart, so mine ended ridiculously easily. Michael’s, though, just keeps dragging on and on with very little progress that I can see, though he swears it’s coming along and he has to do it at his own pace for the kids’ sake, which I don’t think is a lie at all, but come ON. I’ve been patient for over a year and a half. This isn’t what I want my life to be. Maybe someone’s telling me to give Gilly another chance.

I’m not sure how I did it, but somehow I got Gilly to offer to cash in his frequent flyer miles to buy my ticket. I’ll totally pay him back, of course. As soon as my CD goes platinum. (Hey, I am recording a CD. With Morty. Which is Another Story.)

BARTHWAY IN BARRISTERLAND - or- The Broad Goes Abroad

Part the First: I Almost Marry Two Different Englishmen

My “Year Ahead” horoscope for 2006 said that this year would bring more opportunity and good fortune in career and romance than I’d seen in 12 years. That’s pretty good news, since (A) 12 years ago I actually thought I might amount to something, and (B) my life has sucked donkey dick in the interim. When I read this back in December I thought, What was I even doing 12 years ago? And then I realized: 1994 was the Year of Two Englishmen.

DO THAT BLURRY FLASHBACK THING WITH THE HARP MUSIC. I had been chasing Jay for 5 years, with spotty and inconclusive results, and I had finally left him for Mark the Oil Baron, whom I met at Carnegie Hall. I was working as a cater waiter, and he was a guest; I greeted his group in the doorway with a tray of beverages and my usual “Champagne, white wine, mineral water?” and he approached me and took a wine glass.

“What’s this?” he said, pointing to the stem of the glass, and I looked down to see there was a rubber band hanging loosely around it. No idea how that happened.

“Oh, that means you win the door prize!” I replied instantly, with the kind of wit that made me such a very bad formal-occasion waiter.

He made eye contact with me and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re the prize, I’m a lucky man.”

And really, once somebody goes there, one has no choice but to reply, as I did, “You have no idea.”

So he followed me around for the rest of the evening, making mildly lascivious remarks in his plummy English accent and wheedling my phone number out of me. OK, with the accent it wasn’t that hard to get it. Oh, and did I mention his Byronic good looks? Longish, wavy burnished-blond hair, big blue eyes, cherubic mouth that opened into a beautiful grin? He really was cute as hell. He was also allegedly filthy, filthy rich, but everything was currently tied up in litigation with another oil baron, so he wasn’t lavishing gifts on me now, but there was the promise of much generosity to come.

So to make a long story short, a couple of months later I found myself flying to Switzerland (he could only pay half ’til the litigation was over, but he would more than make it up to me once his money was freed up) to stay with him for New Year’s and to audition for the part of Wife No. 2. And to make the story even shorter, I knew I didn’t want the part about 20 minutes after I got there, when he handed me a broom (O YES HE DID) and told me to “Clean the place up a little, will you? I’m going to have a bath, and I’d like a pot of tea when I come out. Oh, and I take steamed milk in my tea.”

“Those are all interesting tidbits of information,” I replied, holding the broom at arm’s length (those things are filthy!), “but I don’t see what any of it has to do with me. I’m a guest, not a servant. If you wanted someone to clean up, you should’ve hired an au pair.”

With a chuckle he kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, “But darling, I’d have had to pay an au pair.”

And the kid — you know I’m not a breeder, but I don’t dislike kids. (I should state, however, that neither do I like all kids, as apparently women are supposed to. Kids are just people, and as with all people, I am highly selective about whom I like, and frankly suspicious of anyone who professes otherwise.)

This kid, though, was a freaking DEMON SPAWN. It was totally not his fault — he was only six — but I swear little Ossie (pronounced like “Ozzie,” and short for something I forget which was awful and conqueror-based but not Ozymandias) had never been said no to in his entire short existence. Imagine a blond little pig-faced boy shouting at you (with full-metal Petulant English Schoolboy accent) in front of a room full of guests, “I’m the chief around here! My daddy pays for everything, so you have to do as I say!” And need I add that Daddy thought this behavior was the most adorable thing ever? Can you imagine how happy I was at breakfast when Ossie demanded another croissant (gorgeous yummy fresh flaky things procured from the konditorei just up the hill; GOD they were good) and Mark replied evenly, “Mardie will give you her croissant, Ossie darling,” without even looking up at me?

I do need to tell you, though, and in great detail, that I had no place to sleep. I couldn’t possibly sleep with Mark, you see, because Ossie slept with Mark. (Six-year-old in the parental bed? I judge.) And I couldn’t sleep in Ossie’s bed because, well, that was Ossie’s bed! And the two guest rooms? Those were taken by Gilead (the gay barrister from London) and Tony (Gilead’s straight friend), who were arriving the next evening for a skiing holiday. And no, I wasn’t told ANY OF THIS before I left my NATIVE LAND. Well, I thought, at least there’ll be two other adults here soon to entertain me. Whenever Ossie was in the room, all attention had to be focused on him and I was invisible to Mark. sniff

Since all the beds were taken, and since there was no actual sofa, I spent nine days sleeping on a PONY-FUR COVERED CHAISE LONGUE. Say that again out loud. They do exist. And I slept on one. In a Danish Modern mansion that was packed to the rafters with Louis XVI antiques (décor courtesy of the ex-wife — thanks, Petronella, you tasteless bitch with a name that sounds like insect repellent!). Picture the entire contents of the palace at Versailles stuffed into an empty Ikea store. And me sleeping there on a PONY-FUR COVERED CHAISE LONGUE.

OK, I really AM going to tell the short version of this part. The houseguests showed up, and Gilead the Gay Guy turned out not to be gay. In fact, he turned out to be delightfully heterosexual, adorable, funny, a Sondheim fan (and no! not gay!) and instantly and completely smitten with me. And no I did NOT sleep with him while we were in Switzerland. That would have been rude. I did make out with him my last night there — really, NINE DAYS! I think I showed amazing restraint! — and we didn’t hook up ’til I was back in New York and had officially broken up with Mark. Gilead came to visit me, and we had a lovely, romantic week together. However, Jay and I were already on the mend, and ultimately I had to choose between this new, untested relationship with a barrister from London who couldn’t just up and move to New York (meaning I’d have to up and move to London if we got serious, and we were definitely going to) and the sweet familiarity of Jay, whom I’d loved for years and who was finally, finally ready to commit to me. (Funny how running off to Switzerland with another guy will do that. I hate it when my mother is right.)

So I married Jay, and kept in touch with Gilead via email. I saw him three or four times during my eight-year marriage whenever he was in town, and felt wistful, but always ended up feeling I’d made the right decision. And frankly, I’d given him two chances — one before I got married, and one when my marriage was ending — to step up to the plate and declare his love for me, and he couldn’t do it. I mean I TOLD him that’s what I needed him to do, and both times he had some lame excuse but then was crushed when I ended up with someone else. I always heard from other people that he adored me, but he wouldn’t come forward if there was ANY other guy competing for me, and let’s face it, I believe in understudies, so that’s just not going to happen.