Getting Waisted (21 page)

It worked . . . not with everyone, but with enough. A whole posse of slim and trim beautiful babes and their very nice, very rich husbands laughed at my confessions and welcomed me with open arms. Not all of these newly formed friendships were destined to last, especially when I had the uncontrollable urges, almost pathological in scope, to not only make fun of me and my
po’girl
situation, but to also poke and stick pins in the spindly but buffed out arms of my kindly benefactors.
Hey, that’s what defensive girls with big mouths do.
How could I help myself, when faced with an entire town of women who wanted to look like big-breasted stick figures in heels? To achieve this pinnacle meant never eating again and having the fat, if any could be found, taken from their asses and reassigned to their lips, then lightening and brightening their already blonde heads and adding a shank of Barbie-doll hair to be woven into their own. Sometimes, while walking behind one of the tribe of Michelle or Goldie wanna-be’s, I’d feel a pang of jealousy at the sight of these long-limbed, bony-assed babes in their miniskirts and belly-baring fuzzy sweaters, all that blonde hair swinging as they paraded. But then they’d turn around and all my envy would vaporize. Some of these broads were pushing sixty plus! They were all kicking and screaming to stop the clock. No Michelle Pfeiffer; more like Freddie Kruger in
it-girl
drag. I flashed into the future, looking in on the oh-so fabulous “Beverly Hills Home for the Never Aging
,
”
and imagined
a lot of skinny, smooth-faced old babes with waxy teased blonde sex-kitten do’s, sunken mascaraed eyes, bovine-collagen-ed lips and droopy wrinkled bodies, but with perky never-say-die silicone breasts, living out their days. The men, too, would be stapled, with their crop-circle hair implants, saggy, sad, knobby reconstructed knees, and spray-tanned silicone pecs that shone like beacons from their long-gone strutting pasts. There’d be a special wing for those tragic old-fart rockers, with their bilevel and stringy comb-overs, cadaver-esque pumped-up cheeks, and faded tattoos that once read “Mayhem” but were now reworked in the wrinkles of time to say “Mayday.” Along this new and alien path I did what I had always done; I made friends. I was just worried I couldn’t afford them. Everyone was always private-jetting off to Aspen or Maui or some other exotic posting, where they could meet up with people who looked exactly like they did. Those belonging to the same tribes found each other. It is written . . .

But nothing could have prepared me for this particular dip into the world of trophy wives. Another striking, lean, and long-limbed blonde had taken a liking to me—no doubt she felt so much thinner when in my company—and invited me to her annual “girls only” Christmas party. As a writer, I couldn’t resist. It was held at her home, located in a gilded and gated community, where she lived with her decrepit but fabulously wealthy music-agent husband and their adorable brand-new adopted Guatamalan baby. The sun was a scorching eighty-eight degrees, but still an oversized toy train loaded with Tiffany boxes circled a brilliant, iridescent blue Christmas tree standing in the foyer. A kindly but tired Salvadoran woman in a starched white uniform led me out to the pool area . . .
Oh, please not the pool area
. Thank God all the “girls”
were wearing cashmere. It was, after all, December.
Did nobody sweat here?
After platters of hot hors d’oeuvres and steaming cups of cocoa with marshmallows were served, which no one ate or drank, we were all given our “Chrissy-prezzies,” the Tiffany boxes from the train, which were filled with sterling silver personalized key rings. What the hell were birthdays going to be like?

Gilles and I walked the streets of our new neighborhood as though we had been born and raised by Sheriff Andy of Mayberry as our Pa. Our mouths were always open in either wonder or horror, depending on the moment. On an early morning stroll we were shocked to see how many people wore their bathrobes to walk their dogs. It seemed that not just the dogs marked their territory; every street was considered their owner’s backyard. One morning we watched a white Rolls Royce slowly moving up one of the wide back alleyways. We were on a scouting mission to see what priceless goodies had been discarded in the garbage cans. We stepped aside to let the Rolls pass. Peculiarly, the driver’s door was slightly ajar and trotting alongside it was a tiny, exhausted Pomeranian wearing a crystal-studded leash, which was being held by the driver as she “walked” her dog. She was an overly teased redhead, her face no longer visible given that it was covered in full-face-lift bandages, making her appear to be Boris Karloff’s sister. She stopped at the stop sign and adjusted her mirror, then applied ruby-red lipstick, blotted it, checked her hair—
fabulous!
—and then slowly drove on.

This insanity was soon to be topped by my first visit to my new Beverly Hills dentist. I sat in the waiting room alongside a very pregnant young woman who confided she was there to have her teeth straightened, so her baby would have nice teeth. I was actually out of words. But I thought the possibilities were endless for delusional pregnant mommies; nose jobs for those with hooked honkers instead to be replaced by the more desirable slightly upturned buttons; highlights for the Sephardics, who wanted a better shot for their wee one’s cheerleader chances; ribs removed, to give a future daughter a better shot at a beauty pageant title. I could go on—you know I could!

I was guessing the Beverly Hills town council had already moved my case to the top of their pile, desperately seeking a legal way to ban me and my heretic fat-girl ways from ever contaminating the city limits again. But slowly, as I got to know my new surroundings I began to understand that, amid the stereotypes, there were, as everywhere, plenty of wonderful people, and I found them. I did make real friends, lots of them. They were warm and true, and some were ridiculously gorgeous. Lisa, Cheryl, and Barbie took me under their wing, somehow fascinated by me, I thought, much like in the late 1800s when Native Americans were brought across the pond as curiosities to the parlors of wealthy Brits in a form of show-and-tell
,
only the parlors I was being exhibited in were all in my new town. Cheryl and Barbie were both native Californians, so they knew the strange ways of this alien world and therefore were very helpful in teaching me the unspoken rules. Purses and shoes were far more important than food—they didn’t know me very well—but they had to be the
right
purses and shoes. Really, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about purses and shoes. I didn’t feel the need to carry anything else heavy.

They promised to share the secret of Lohman’s, where everything was real and could be had for a song, but one had to be careful to make sure whatever you chose was barely out of season. The bigger secret was where to buy the realest fakes for next to nothing, and if worn with the good jewelry, would pass muster even by the meanest eagle eyes. I was very appreciative and they never had to know I preferred pockets to purses, and my feet were far too close to Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters’ to even contemplate some big-name’s dainty slippers. I was given the lesson that Barry Keiselstein Cord was not a man, but a must-have belt. I tried not to laugh. Besides knowing the best $400 collagen-enhancing crème, it was more important to befriend the smooth-as-anaconda-like sales women at Neiman Marcus, who, if they liked you, would alert you when things were going on sale; and if they really took to you, would hide the best merchandise ’til you arrived. Maître d’s were the other people who could make or break your day. But a truly excellent tip came from one of the husbands, who told me if I was going to upgrade to a better car, which he seemed to think was a mandatory move if I wanted
any
respect, I should buy it from one of the BH wives. They got new cars almost as often as they bought new shoes, and their trade-in’s had no mileage on them, seeing as none of them ever left the protected environs of Beverly Hills.

The best secret I learned was one that I got from the housekeepers I came to know who cared for the beautiful homes in which my new friends lived, and I couldn’t wait to share it with Gilles. The night before the giant garbage bins were emptied was trolling time. People in Beverly Hills threw out the most amazing things: brand-new shirts, still in their cellophane or Saks boxes (perhaps the colors were no longer in favor); brand-new Gucci belts that had become tarnished and therefore were useless; high-end vacuum cleaners, tossed because someone didn’t understand that the bags needed to be changed and on and on . . . Gilles was the man who could transform the faded and forgotten into the most desirable of treasures. The rest he returned to the shops from whence they came . . . and left with full credit.

Barbie and Cheryl took me to the newest “in” restaurants, their exclusive golf clubs, and the best blond-ers in the world, and everywhere we went there were forests of long legs in tiny skirts, shaking tiny behinds. However, I also met many outstanding women: Nancey, two or three Lisas, Kathy, and Joanna—all warm, all funny, and as good as the girlfriends that I had back home.

But still, I was overcome and feeling the pressure of living surrounded by the “Best in Show.” I scanned the checkout counter magazines, inhaling every diet on every cover. I zeroed in on a small ad promoting the Russian Air Force Diet. It seemed to promise the most radical weight loss, and I had long forgotten my mantra about making good food choices instead of picking bad diets. This one consisted mostly of diet sodas and red meat,
lots
of red meat. The models representing the possibilities of eating this way looked toned and fierce; of course, that could have been because they all carried Kalashnikov assault rifles. This turned out to be a very good diet for weight loss, seeing as I wasn’t a big fan of red meat. But I did like diet sodas. I could have lost eighty pounds, but I still would have been a water buffalo amid a herd of gazelles. It was pretty clear to me, no matter what I did to fit in, I was always going to be an outsider.

After two and a half weeks I sent the Russian Air Force Diet back to its hangar. My skin had begun to break out and my brain was on strike from drinking too many diet sodas. I was jittery and constantly spaced out. Gilles could not understand my need to willingly jump through these ridiculous hoops. It was hard enough for me to make sense of it, but the desire to be thinner was so deeply encoded in my programming that it had become my default.

Other than that ongoing
mishegas
, we were happy. Clearly in the beginning of some nesting phase, we soon added to our family by getting a dog. It was a very cute and very fluffy puppy, but it was a chow chow and we had not done our homework. They are notorious for being aloof and loyal only to their masters. Gilles and I were both friendly and we liked people, pretty much all of them. Our dog did not. First on her hit list were children, who she hated; second were people of color, who she hated even more. We spent the next eleven years apologizing.

Providence reached out and the ex-pats found us. Los Angeles at that time was apparently Canada’s fourth largest city, with well over a million Canadians living far away from the cold. The Canadian Consulate was our home away from home, with their many parties celebrating all things Canadian, from Joni Mitchell to Alex Trebec, Imax, Roots shoes, and whichever films were in contention for winning Oscars. There was, and is, an unbelievable amount of Canadian talent that flourishes among the palms. Our social life quadrupled in a heartbeat with the discovery of many people we had known in the past that we didn’t know were also living in L.A. There was immediate recognition of the subtle differences from the Americans that we shared with all other Canadians—mostly our unabashed pride in coming from the home of the Mountie, and our tic of apologizing even if we weren’t the ones stepping on someone else’s foot. And in spite of having made many new American friends, there was something so comforting in knowing the secret handshake that we Frost-backs shared. For us, the most fun we had was in bringing our two sets of friends together.

We had lived in L.A. for a couple of years when legal issues suddenly reared their heads. I was able to get a green card to continue living and working in the U.S., but Gilles could not, as he was a freelancer and didn’t fit the criteria. There was only one answer: to get married. I teased Gilles; it was now my turn to call the shots.

We realized we had a problem on our hands as all of our Toronto family thought we were already married. We decided to not tell anyone back home and just get married at the Santa Monica Courthouse with only a few close friends in attendance. Kim Cattrall, who was a very busy working actress, but not yet the famous doyenne of
Sex and the City
notoriety, was my maid of honor. I had introduced her to her soon-to-be husband and it would soon be
quid pro quo
in the maid-of-honor sweepstakes, only her wedding was to take place on the exclusive shores of the C
ô
te d’Azur. Our ceremony was a surreal experience since I already felt married and blessed, but at least I was no longer a sniveling, whining, emotional hot mess. We couldn’t help but feel concerned that everyone back home would find out—and they did. The idea that we could keep our secret was ludicrous. It was too good a nugget of news to stay locked up. Someone told someone, and that someone told someone else, and soon it was a brushfire spreading everywhere until it engulfed our family and friends. Confusion and false memories from people confident they had actually been at our wedding ceremony smacked up against those who were just miffed that they had given us a wedding present for a wedding that never happened.

We decided to follow up our ceremony with an enormous party at our L.A. home, with people spilling inside and out. We asked people not to bring gifts as we didn’t need anything and we had friends from Toronto arriving who had already given us a gift for the fake wedding. It was not like any wedding reception I had ever attended. Neither the bride nor the groom were anxious. Our guests were a fantastic combination of Canadians and Americans, mostly in show business and therefore not shy. The food was amazing and mostly made by Gilles. I felt remarkably peaceful and I wanted to make my guests feel just as comfortable, so humor was the daily special, not nerves. Many of my girlfriends took turns wearing my bridal veil, which I got at a thrift store and wore as a joke. It was hard to keep the microphone in any one person’s hand for any length of time. People toasted us, made fun of us and everyone else there, and there were great singers on hand to serenade us. It was then that we knew we had made a life in Hollyweird and we were where we belonged.