only through her assistant. She insists someone spray the room with lavender oil before she arrives. And, she says that the big bucks she receives for her public appearances, such as at those Miami night clubs and the like, is. . .” I whispered into the back of my hand for effect, “barely worth the cash, if she has to slum it with the riff-raff for an entire hour.”
“That’s just wrong!” Algorithms Girl sputtered, looking disgusted.
“Twisted, eh?” I said. “And, side-bar, apparently she refuses to use public rest-rooms.”
A few years ago, someone like Dagmar would have barely hit my radar—after all, I was aiming to be the next network news anchor, not Perez Hilton. But living in LA, whether through proximity or peer pressure, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by celebrity, even celebrity heiresses. Swapping the Economist for Star magazine had become habit, not guilty pleasure, and I now Tivo’d more shows on MTV and CW than on all the so-called “smart” networks combined (not that that meant much, with their Swamp People and Dog in number one ratings spots).
So much for wholesome smart chick from the great white north. Hard to believe I once did an investigative news story that prompted Vancouver police to take down an illegal Internet gambling ring. My weekend beach clean-ups back home had been replaced by weekend binges in Mexico, where I downed margaritas and got beach-side massages which cost less than an LA studio lunch.
In fairness, I had maintained my strange fixation on the notoriously grounded, immensely bold, celebrity talk show icon Ricky Dean. Now, he had substance. As the syndicated radio host of the ultra-famous Fix Your Life show, he had helped countless people straighten out their cruddy lives. A Ph.D. no less, who had penned at least five bestsellers on the art of a balanced life, he provided no-nonsense good advice, helping people help themselves, and he was damn good at it.
“Remember that show Heavenly Hotel?” someone else piped in. “Those people were so brutal! Total train wreck.”
Algorithms Girl cut her friend off. “Yuck, I hated that show. Hey, I want to hear about those Sex Kittens you’re working with.”
“Well, it’s a show about rock stars and the sexiest groupies on the planet,” I started. “Basically, a day in the life of Kittens on a play-date with a rock star, and we film it! That’s pretty much it.”
“Seems anyone can get their own show these days,” someone said sarcastically.
“Who’s the next rock star on the Kittens show?” someone else asked.
“Chaz Jones,” I said. Three days ago, I had never heard of this country mega-star. Now, we were on a first name basis. “He, our impossible host, and two very hot Sex Kittens.”
Just as Craig walked in to join the conversation, two of the guys went Raaaaar. I saw Craig whisper to them.
“What’s that, Craig? Something you want to share?” I said with the lightness of a woman in love, expecting he’d make up for the car ride by declaring his devotion to my fragile feminine ego.
“Nope. Just that I might once have dabbled in a little meow mix myself.” He thumped his chest like a big ape.
“Whoa,” everybody teased, as if Craig and I were about to have a standoff.
People chuckled. But I was mortified. It was one of those evenings that had quickly plunged from expectations of glorified bliss—like Christmas morning, or the first day of a vacation, or a reunion with the love of your life—to a period stain on your favorite underwear. It was no badge of honor, not to mention embarrassing, to have my boyfriend telling a roomful of strangers he’d slept with a woman willing to show the whole world her naked beave!
“Why’d you say that?” I asked, halfway home in my Volvo. No clue why we hadn’t driven his brand new Jeep. Come to think of it, where was his Jeep?
“Say what?”
“About sleeping with a Sex Kitten in front of all those people.”
“You asked,” he said, laughing, as if it was funny.
“But, Craig, come on.”
“What?”
“Did you really sleep with a Kitten?”
“Yeah.”
“So, tell me about it,” I said, not understanding why I was going down this combative road.
“It was nothing. I met her in Miami. She told me she posed for Purr, she was hot, and we ended up hooking up. That’s it.”
“That’s sleazy,” I said. “Please tell me it wasn’t Lucy. Who was it?”
“It wasn’t Lucy. And why are you asking?”
“I’m curious. How many women have you slept with anyway?” The dreaded number question.