Monday, March 4, 2013

Calling Alec Baldwin!

They're back... again. I don't know what the hell happened in this world, but head lice now seem as common as gurus in LA. They are not only everywhere and multiplying, but highly resistant to removal.  Kids even enjoy getting them at this point.

"Mom! I have a lots of live lice on my head. It's like a buffet up there. They love me!"  I was going to show you a picture of a louse but Courtney Cox popped up when I Googled. No correlation and she ought to sue Google. Her daughter recently had lice. This was not only major international news on every search engine but apparently an outrage in Malibu.

The Things, otherwise known as my twin girls, seem to get head lice once a month. I wrote this a number of years ago when it first happened because I was horrified; my first experience with these persistent fuckers. Now, it's a routine. I'm a champion when it comes to ridding kids of lice. I ought to hang a shingle and start getting paid. Give me a call Courtney when they return.

SHINGLE:   "Psychic. Your kid has lice. I can remove it. $200 bucks. Plus, I'll read his/her future."

I can tell by looking at a kid where they will end up. This one will some day become the GOP VP.

Here is my earlier archived post. It's still relevant. I still dream of celebrities but I'm no longer this major shrew to my husband. I've grown to like the guy. I don't even mind his play-by-plays. Or maybe it's because now that he has a massive man-cave, when he realizes I'm in a "mood," he just leaves.


At a five star hotel, there was a film shoot in progress. Sitting under an umbrella and wrapped lace, Alec Baldwin came over and asked if I would be in his shoot.

He was short one super model and I would be perfect. I glanced at the women standing on the beach in their string bikinis, all glammed up with body oil and fake tans. I’m nobody so this couldn’t be a punked thing. And also is that show still on?

“You are gorgeous,” he says. "Let’s move!”

Alec carried me to a group of 21-year old models, where I stood out like an infested oak tree.  I'm on the far right, just out of frame.

Alec is shouting out of a large, white cone.

“When I say RUN, head toward the water. Okay. Action. And RUN!” We all took off; feet on fire from the hot sand, yet the girls are running gracefully, like gazelles especially Gisele Bundchen because she is a gazelle.

“Why are we going so fast?” Then I hear gun shots. “That’s why…” Gisele tells me. But they were now way ahead of me. I took a bullet in the back and fell flat on my face.  This is how I saw myself just before going down.

Reality -----

Then I hear: “Baby, let me adjust this again, make sure it’s tight. Now we twist is around…”

My husband’s voice. He runs a commentary re Thing One’s nit cap, during which he woke me up and burst my bubble. Yes, it was a dream, but goddamn it I got out of the house!

“YOU popped my bubble! I’m trapped for life. Why do you have to talk all the time?” I am now sobbing. Inconsolably.

“It was a perfect dream! I was a model! Alec Baldwin shot me!"

Husband whisks Thing One out of the room. I am hysterical.

“Anything is better than this!” I sobbed, olive oil dripping down my neck.

I never tell dreams in stories because I never read them. I skip over them and get to the point. Hence the opening.

I want to go back to Alec, to see the wound, his reaction, the fuss over me. He thought I was a supermodel! Who cares if I was killed?

I can't seem to stop my ranting. "I'd rather be dead with Alec Baldwin than alive with you!"

The night before we all tucked in, we did a nit treatment; all of our heads were covered in olive oil, caps and scarves. There was an outbreak at school. I never had nits or lice as a kid, or if I did, my mother ignored it. She probably figured they would die in the Michigan cold. Who knows?

Earlier that day, I had to make this call according to school rules.

“Hi parent mom whom I never talk to, but your daughter told E she has lice. You should know that.”

This mother is French. “Impossibeeel. There is way no.” This went on and on until she saw a bug in her kid’s hair.

“OH, this is catastrophic!” Here come the tears.

I have worked with the French over 15 years and everything is catastrophic. What I might consider a drag, to them it’s catastrophic. For example, “Well, they want more on the back-end on this movie.” “Oh, that is catastrophic!” Really? I grew to like the word and now use it regularly.

“There is jam on the table. That is catastrophic!”  "Oh my god! There is a smudge on my new jeans! This is a catastrophe!"

Back to the French mom.

“Oui, oui,” I tell her. “Douse her hair in olive oil then go on line.” She kept talking as I hung up.

Still upset about not getting shot by Alec, I got out of bed and flung myself around the house. “This CANNOT be my life. This has to be the dream!!” I sashayed up and down the hall.

And also when did I turn into little Edith Bouvier?  We seem to think a lot a like and oddly, my backyard, due to gardeners never showing and tree droppings falling everywhere, has an overgrown, haphazard fetid quality.  I'm certain now that Little Edie had nits. Probably her entire adult life.


After exhausting myself twirling around, I went back to bed, hubby slept god knows where, maybe on the kitchen floor. Closing my eyes, I envision that hotel, the models, the blood, then wondered if nits are in fact catastrophic.  The next morning this magazine was on the mail stand.

They have no idea what is coming.

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