I once had a girlfriend named Lysette who did some work for the Mossad. It was a good gig, but eventually she got tired of seducing Syrian businessmen in cheap East European hotels. She drifted for years. I urged her to give up and marry rich, but Lysette refused, and now she’s living in Queens with an ethnic boyfriend.
Think about it for a second. Lysette could be in Fairfield county, fooling around with her Bikram trainer while her husband blogs about Wall Street. I’m just saying, people should be more open. The world would be a better place.
I’m thinking about this because since I last posted, I wrote the novel and now have an agent. Her name is Elaine Totsky.
Elaine may have been good looking once – it’s hard to tell once the sun spots set in. At first I thought it didn’t matter how she looked. I figured she’s in a job where no one has to see her face. But it turns out that agenting is all about lunches, and lunches are all about impressing people with your body. I’ve seen other agents at parties, and they’re young and hot and skilled at drawing attention to their cleavage. Frankly, I’m a little concerned. How did I get stuck with Keith Richards?
My future ex-husband told me not to be worried. “Babe,” he said. “She’s selling you. Not her sagging neck.” Easy for him to say. He still thinks I’m 35. But I thought just in case, I should give her the number of my plastic surgeon. I also handed her a card for a “cosmedical” spa on Lexington because of her facial hair situation. And do you know what? She didn’t even thank me.
Speaking of cosmeticians, did I mention that my father is dating his dental hygienist? She’s a Kosovan single mom, so that’s three offensive things about her already. I’m really having a bad day.