It’s amazing how rich everyone is out here in L.A. Case in point, they don’t use trucks – they use garbage limos. So, my day began just like any other in Malibu when I asked Sabrina and Melody to help me plan a yacht party for our employees. The moonlight, the sea air, an open bar to fuel Tony and Lynne’s anger toward each other…what could possibly go wrong?
I also taped an amazing episode of In Bed with Joan with Sarah Silverman as my guest, which was a complete delight except for when Sarah said my show was a joke and we screamed obscenities at each other. I thought, maybe Sarah is right. Maybe my show needs a bit of a make-over, starting with my bedroom set. I’m already breaking the bank on our boat party, so off we went to IKEA, where I figured we could save on some new furniture. (By the way, if you think IKEA is fussy about people sitting on their furniture in the showroom, you should try taping a TV show from one of their beds.)
The other big news concerns Melissa’s relationship with Duncan. Yes, I can call it a relationship. I don’t want to go into detail about what I saw going on between them behind closed doors…at 2:00 in the afternoon…in Melissa’s bed. All I can say is that she clearly paid attention to my talk about the birds and the bees!
I’ve got to hand it to my Mom: when it comes to meddling in my personal life, nobody does it better. For example, this weekend we’re all going to Las Vegas so Sabrina and her husband Curtis can renew their wedding vows. Of course, Mom’s real purpose for this trip is to surround me with hot guys and ply me with liquor in a town where there’s a quickie wedding chapel every three blocks and just, you know, see what happens. Every celebrity has a cause, and apparently my Mom’s cause is getting me back in a relationship by next week and married off by this summer. Meanwhile, back here in Reality Land, I’m not even ready to start dating again, let alone settle down with anybody. But in my Mom’s English-to-Mom Dictionary “I’m not ready yet,” translates into, “I’m totally ready!” Truth is, Mom wants me to get married again is so I can have another baby. But I’m lucky enough to live in an age where a woman can make that decision for herself whether she’s married or not. Now if I can just get my Mom to understand that.
It’s my Mom’s birthday this week and she’s a complete basket case. Really, what’s the big deal about turning seventy-eight? Honestly, I’ve just been so over all that age, number-obsessive stuff ever since I turned thirty-teen. The way I look at it, you celebrate birthdays because each one marks another year you’ve cheated death. Sure, I get some funny looks at the bakery when I order birthday cakes with “You’ve Cheated Death Again!” written on them in frosting, but that’s how I feel. Now everything she sees is making Mom feel old, even our pet turtle outgrowing his tank. That’s why I’m so glad she’s going to New York for a few days because if her best friend Margie can’t cheer her up, nothing will. Mom will do some stand-up, she and Margie will have lots of fun, and hopefully Mom will come back to Cooper and me in Los Angeles with something more cheerful on her mind than planning her own funeral. Because if she doesn’t, I may have to start planning mine.
A wise person once said that Joan Rivers acts inappropriately for a living. OK, so it was me who said that. But I don’t think even Joan Rivers would deny that being brutally honest about sexuality, sometimes to the point of being outrageous, has played a major role in her incredibly successful career. The problem is, not everybody gets the joke. Which is why one of my Mom’s employees is suing her for—are you sitting down?—sexual harassment. At first Mom thought the whole thing was just a big joke. Then she found out that when it comes to sexual harassment she’s legally liable not only for her own behavior, but for the behavior of all of her employees. That wiped the smile off Mom’s face faster than a truckload of Botox. Now, my Mom doesn’t have to talk about sex to be funny, but I’m not so sure that’s also the case with Tony. And when Tony opens for my Mom next week he’d better be squeaky clean on stage or else there’s going to be hell to pay– and my Mom’s going to be the one writing those big checks.
Cooper and I are off to New York this week, which is great because my Mom will put us up and we’ll get to spend a lot of time with her. It’s also not so great because my Mom will put us up and we’ll get to spend a lot of time with her. Mom’s really into that whole “my roof, my rules” thing, although in her case it’s more like, “my world, my rules”. But getting Cooper to know and love New York is my job, not Mom’s. When is she going to learn that if anybody’s going to be running Cooper’s life it’s going to be me? Boy, did that not sound right. OK, time out: what am I worried about? The three of us will be together in New York City and we’re going to have a blast. We’ll see great shows, go to great restaurants, and laugh a lot. My Mom knows I want Cooper to have as normal a childhood as possible, which means no publicity, no paparazzi, and – mostly – no trying to get him into show business. As long as Mom respects that, we’re totally good. I think.
I’m a single mom again, I’m crazy busy with work, and life’s gotten to the point where even bath oil beads can’t take me away anymore. Let’s face it: I could use some help. Now, here’s the ad I wouldn’t have taken out on Craig’s List: “Help Wanted – Seeking elderly, opinionated woman with boundary and privacy issues to help with organizing my life and childcare.” And yet that’s what I got when Mom decided she was going to help me out. Don’t get me wrong: Mom’s heart is in the right place. But in terms of execution, let’s just say Mom’s heart is in the right place. Having Mom’s help with Cooper is great because he adores his Grandma. Having Mom help me with my businesses? Not so great. When it comes to my work, there’s a fine line between helping and meddling, and Mom just stomped all over it like an ant at a picnic. If Mom can’t figure out how to lend me a hand without trying to take over my life, she’s welcome to butt the hell out. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.