Elvis on the Wall

Awhile ago, I emailed a Los Angeles art gallery about purchasing a print

They sent back a very nice email that said the print was $6500 and would I be interested in adding it to my collection, and clearly it is an iconic piece of artwork.

Alas, $6500 is out of scope of the art budget, but I still get emails from the gallery, and when I open them, I like to pretend that yes, I am considering adding that original Andy Warhol to my collection of framed posters at home.

I don’t understand how people can not care about art, nor find it interesting, nor want to own any, no matter what the medium. (I also, however, sobbed…sobbed…through the Cirque du Soliel “Viva Elvis” show in Las Vegas, so take my responses to art with a grain of salt.)


I love it when

my boss comes up to ask me a question and I have my headphones on and all I can hear is “IF THE ROOF ON FIRE, LET THE MOTHERFUCKER BURN.” Because, probably what she’s saying is something similar.

On Being Married the Second Time, Part One

The first time I got married, all I cared about were things like if the ivory color of the roses would clash with my dress, which was “light gold.” (I sincerely asked the florist that.)

Eventually I’ll write about the reasons my first marriage was a failure, and the reasons my second one isn’t. But that’s too heavy for today. So here, as far as I’m concerned, are some of the main differences about a second wedding, in the most superficial, wedding-specific sense:

1. The first time is about the clothes. The first time, I stood around in every bridal shop in town (and some in surrounding towns) and scrutinized my appearance in wedding dresses of various ridiculousness:

And always with a pained look on my face. Because this was life-ending stuff. I mean, you’re only going to wear one wedding dress in your entire life (so I thought), and it had better be perfect. (I didn’t buy that dress in the picture. I did buy TWO OTHERS, though, because the first one was deemed too ugly,seconds after I bought it. So I bought a second one. Good Lord.)

Second time:

Black dress, black sweater. Bought with my mother-in-law in one trip to Bloomingdale’s. Smiling face. Bouquet of carnations because I love them, even though they are “cheap.” (Although now I notice they kind of look like a head of cauliflower…but who cares?)

2. The first time is about engagement rings. In fair disclosure, my first husband was a jeweler. He sat around all day making people engagement rings and hanging out with someone in a jewelry store distorts your sense of entitlement.

Never mind that we were poor. I deserved something beautiful, didn’t I? And beautiful = huge. Or huger than our budget should have allowed. (Contrary to popular belief, you don’t get a discount if you work in the jewelry business…or much of one. Diamonds cost what they cost.) So I had a perfectly normal wedding ring that was just fine, but I thought should be bigger. What a bitch.

Second time:

Three times as big. Nothing I would have looked at before because of the price tag, but probably would’ve thought I “deserved.” I would have LOST MY MIND before about this. I would’ve thought it was the coolest piece of jewelry ever. Sparkly! Attention-getting! Compliment-demanding!

We were going to buy plain bands because I was pregnant and above diamonds the second time, and I was commending myself because I was so wholesome and thrifty. And then my mother-in-law (do you see a theme here?) got out the family jewelry and suggested I might like my husband’s great-grandmother’s wedding ring. And that I could have it if I wanted.

And that’s worth more to me than anything else, really. (Other than my husband’s undying love, which is symbolizes.)

3. The first time is about the party. About 200 people came to my first wedding. I thought they needed to be there, to witness this important event. And see the roses and dress and the engagement ring. And come to the reception, about which I had a melt down concerning the dance floor.

Second time:

Two witnesses, the bride and groom, and the judge. And the  photographer, who is taking the picture. That’s it. I didn’t care if anyone was there, other than my husband.

And my son, who was there, too. Some day I’ll tell him how happy I was to marry his dad. How nothing, really, mattered but the three of us.

Things I Would Own if I Had a Shit Ton of Money

Not a ton…a shit ton.

1. A gardner.

2. A cook.

3. An Hermes Birkin bag, just to be a pretentious a hole.

4. A relationship with a personal shopper at Alexander McQueen.

5. A personal trainer, on call.

6. A trashy, ridiculous Trans Am.

7. A home in Las Vegas. And one in Miami.

8. A body like this:


9. A Jennifer Steinkamp installation, on my wall.

10.  Zuber scenic wallpaper.

Baby Solipsism

This came in an email yesterday:

hi (sic) Katherine,
your baby is 32 weeks old!

Separation anxiety is common now because your baby understands object permanence: You (or an object) still exist even when out of his sight. Play more games such as patty-cake and peekaboo. Spend a lot time talking, labeling objects, reading books and naming pictures on a page.

Babies are solipsists until they are seven months old. 


Why I Hate the Way I Talk

I am completely incapable of speaking in complete sentences. I sound stupid. I don’t answer questions directly. I stumble over words. I don’t make eye contact. I don’t listen before speaking.

I become annoyed by my own speaking. I realize this while it’s happening, but I can’t seem to make it stop.

I am hoping this is not anything in my genes. I’m afraid it is.


I passed the Valero where I totaled my first Mustang last night. I hadn’t been over to that part of town for awhile and I kind of forgot about it.

I had pulled out and couldn’t see around a sign and the next thing I know, there was a terrible noise and a bunch of dust in my car. (Have you ever had a wreck when the air bags deploy? They are dusty and smell weird.) An old lady driving a Neon and I had collided: she hit the back half of the driver’s side of my car.

So I sat there, completely stunned, not knowing what to do. If you’ve had a car wreck, you know the feeling: it’s like your brain can’t quite put all of the piece together yet. I remember thinking that I had probably totaled my car, that it smelled bad, that it was dusty, that the radio had stopped–

And then someone opened the door and grabbed my arm and said, “Come on. You’re alright. Get out.”

And I did. And a woman stood there and shook my shoulders a little bit and said, “Honey, you’re OK. Do you have a phone? Can you call someone? I called 911 already.”

So I did. And I dialed the wrong number twice, and then I finally got it right, and said a shaky, “Mom?” into the phone and the woman next to me barked “Say you’re OK!” (As a mother myself I see now why she said it.)

She said her name was Judy and that she had seen the wreck from across the street and had run over to help. She said she would stay with me until the police came and someone came to take me home.

And after all the dust settled, and the tow truck and the police and the lady in the Neon were all gone, I was getting a ride home. And my driver said, “Who was that lady you were hugging before we left?”

And I said, “That was Judy.”

If I ever see a car wreck, I’m going to try to be someone’s Judy.