Loose Diamonds (10 page)

Fourteen

Nicknames

W
hen I
first met him, his name was Pete, or at least that was what his family called
him because his name was Mike and his father’s name was also Mike and it was too
confusing. No one in New York knew his name was Pete because he’d already
changed it back to Mike, Mike Donohue, his given name, which was initially the
name he wrote under. But then George Swift Trow III (a name he’d come by
honestly), Mike’s best friend, and one of the people who wrote the “Talk of the
Town” column for the
New Yorker
at the time, 1973 or
thereabouts, decided one night over cocktails that, in addition to going to
Brooks Brothers and buying a suit and trading out the tortoiseshell-rimmed
glasses for silver-wired frames, Mike should change his name to something that
was
so
much
classier and elegant and
such
a better pen name and go back to his original Irish family
name, O’Donoghue, and lose the childlike Mike, as well, thereby changing his
byline to Michael O’Donoghue, which he did the very next day. But not before I
declared, over those same cocktails, that I would forever more call him “Ghue,”
which is a weird joke and one you can only understand if you were having
cocktails with us or grew up in Los Angeles (or London).

It was sort of like when Janie Hartmann’s
stepfather, who owned a casino, gave her and her sister an oil well for
Christmas the first year he was married to their mother. Janie and I immediately
(and irrevocably) nicknamed him “Oil Well” (not to his face, of course, because
he owned a casino). There were two syllables in the word O-il. As in “How’s O-il
Well feeling today?” “Can you come over? O-il Well says I can’t go out tonight.”
“O-il Well didn’t seem to be in a very good mood this morning.” Janie Hartmann’s
stepfather didn’t look like he owned a casino. He was diminutive and dapper and
always perfectly dressed, even when he showed up at the breakfast table in an
elegant silk robe, reading the
Wall Street Journal
and picking up the phone every now and then to call his broker, all of which in
retrospect had everything to do with owning a casino, including the bathrobe,
but we didn’t realize it when we were 12.

Michael O’Donoghue wrote for
National Lampoon,
which at the time had grown beyond cult/hip
status, and its writers, Chris Guest, Henry Beard, Doug Kenney, Chris Cerf,
George Trow, Michael O’Donoghue, and others were breaking ground for comedy,
satire, and political commentary that would morph (with the inclusion of some of
its writers) into
Saturday Night Live
and, later,
Animal House
, and ultimately pave the way for
some of the things that Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Rachel Maddow do
today. When Doug Kenney came up with the brilliant cover with an illustration of
a dog with a gun to its head and the caption, “If You Don’t Buy This Magazine,
We’ll Shoot This Dog,” it wasn’t just a joke, it was a statement about marketing
and advertising and corporate America.

“Ghue” hadn’t gone to Harvard like the rest of
them. But he had a dark, twisted, satirical talent that was unrivaled. He also
had a soft side that hardly anyone ever saw besides me (and probably Cheryl
Hardwick, the musical director of
SNL,
to whom he
was married from the late ’80s until his untimely death in 1994), and all the
waifs (i.e., everyone we knew) who we invited every year for Easter dinner (all
of which I cooked: ham, turkey, and all the sides); Michael would insist on
making his mother’s green lime Jell-O mold, which was disgusting but great and
had pineapple in it and something like cottage cheese. At night, he would tell
me the story of Mrs. Ypsilante and the Bears Downstairs (which was later
privately published as “Bears”), my own personal bedtime story, which began:

Bears are gnawing on the carpets.

Bones are tumbling into tarpits.

I know, it doesn’t really sound like a bedtime
story, but they were and they are sort of brilliant. But that was “Ghue.”

Years later, I bristle when one of the other
Lampoon
writers is quoted about O’Donoghue (and me) in
one of the books written about the history of the
National
Lampoon
saying, “They had such a strange relationship. They used to
talk baby talk to each other. She used to call him ‘Goo.’” Really, is that what
that was? I just thought I’d try to set the record straight. And then there’s
that other story that’s too difficult to talk about.

It was a little volatile. There were breakups.
There was that morning he went out for breakfast and didn’t return. We somehow
reconciled two years later but by then there was probably too much anger, too
many hurt feelings, for it to ever really work. Note to anyone who’s truly in
love with anyone: think twice before you walk out the door on a fling. And not
that I’m into revenge, but I’m happy to report that the person he ran off with
is presently single and, for reasons that I’ll never understand, hates me way
more than I hate her. Maybe she didn’t understand the “Ghue” thing either. Or
that story that’s too difficult to talk about
.

Years later, I bristle (that’s sort of an
understatement), when one of the other
Lampoon
writers is quoted about O’Donoghue (and me) in one of the books written about
the history of the
National Lampoon
saying, “She had
an affair with ‘another writer’ who was one of Michael’s best friends.” Had an
affair with another writer? Really, is that what that was? For the record, the
night I spent with the “other writer” was not consensual. At one point, I
honestly thought he was going to hurt me, and in that moment, I decided, gallows
humor being a good thing, that I would forever more call the other writer “Bobby
Skakel,” which is how I refer to him now. Not to his face, of course, because
the night we spent was not consensual and, luckily for me, except for once, I’ve
never been in a room with him again.

Afterwards “the writer” threatened me, said he’d
tell terrible stories about me (which he went ahead and did anyway). O’Donoghue
had a fistfight with him and shortly thereafter, the
Lampoon
sort of disassembled, which I’m sure caused someone to
nickname me “Yoko” but that’s because I never told anyone the story except for
Michael and, weirdly, George Plimpton, and probably George Trow because we told
him everything, and a couple of other close friends.

The term “date rape” hadn’t been coined yet. And I
was 18 at the time. And the other writer frightened me.

I ran into him 30 years later at a party in L.A.
and, weirdly, George Plimpton was standing at my side. And “the writer” began to
do the same thing he’d done in 1973, whispered to people across the room that
he’d spent a night with me, that I’d given him really strong marijuana—a thing
I’ve never been a fan of and which didn’t exist at the time and is a really
interesting defense: It wasn’t my fault, she drugged me. Plimpton offered to
take him out to the pool and deck him, but since George was 80 at the time, that
didn’t seem like a very good idea. I left the party.

I told my friend Lisa the story the next day, the
whole story, and she said something that resonates with me still. “Oh, wow,” she
said, “I bet you’re not the only one. Guys who do things like that usually do it
more than once.”

Two years later “the writer” published a book about
how he’d found redemption through his conversations with a priest, how he’d
given up alcohol and made amends (at least, I think that’s what it was about
from all the “published” reports—I never read it), which prompted his daughter
to say, somewhat publicly, “Really, is that what you’ve done? What about when
you molested me when I was a kid?”

He went after her with the same force with which he
went after me, claiming she was crazy and delusional and troubled, didn’t accuse
her of giving him “incredibly strong marijuana” but then again, she was five at
the time. I thought about going public then because for a minute it didn’t look
like people were believing her. But then they did. And I stayed silent because I
didn’t see the point. And the truth is, and I’m ashamed to admit this, he
frightened me—even 30 years later when I ran into him at a party, well protected
by friends.

One thing I’ll say about Michael O’Donoghue is:
after the night I spent with “the writer,” he never mentioned it again. There
was that fistfight, of course, but I never knew the details of what had
occurred. I can imagine. But for us it was sort of like Voldemort, that totally
brilliant thing that J. K. Rowling invented (because she knows something
about nicknames, too): “He whose name shall never be spoken.” Until it is. And
then you can somehow put it to rest.

Fifteen

Mistake
Shopping

S
ometimes
it happens—you buy something that’s a mistake. Usually it’s on a quest—for a
pair of “perfect black open-toed, sling-backed heels” (which should be easy) or
“a beige silk camisole” to wear with the amazing black Chloe ’20s-style silk
evening jacket with the bow on the back and no buttons, the lapels of which flap
open softly at the top revealing just a slip of a beautiful beige silk lining
that you’re trying to exactly match except you don’t have pants for it either.
Or you need something to wear to a party Saturday night because nothing in your
closet fits—and after trying on 29 things in four different stores, you buy
something partly because you can’t bear the thought of going out again
tomorrow.

Just to be clear, this is not the kind of shopping
that you do because you’ve just seen an old Grace Kelly movie or
The September Issue
and you’re inspired and you simply
have to add a couple of pieces (or more) to your wardrobe because it really is
fun to dress up and, on a day-to-day level, you really have been running around
in sweats a little more than is good for you or anyone else in the neighborhood.
Not that you could look like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn or Anna Wintour on a
day-to-day level, but it would be good for you (and the economy) if you tried a
little harder. When you’re inspired, it’s hard to make mistakes.

I have a sister who makes shopping mistakes
somewhat regularly. But I think she sometimes does it because she has such a
good eye for art and design, and often a piece of clothing will look
so
extraordinary on the rack that you kind of miss
that it doesn’t look so great on you, or that out on the street, it might be
more
of a fashion statement than you intended to
make. One royal-blue parachute-silk deconstructed dress comes to mind. It was
the ’70s. And it truly was a work of art, but the truth is my sister was stick
thin at the time and too tiny to pull it off. Curiously, it looked sort of great
on me, though. So she gave it to me. One drop-waist white-and-black-striped
cotton dress with little puffed sleeves also comes to mind. I think it was a
Vera Wang or something. But when she got it home, she looked like a shy
15-year-old at a birthday party. Same thing, cause I’m three inches taller and
my arms were a little plumper, it looked great on me, so I got that one, too. I
started to think that she was doing it on purpose and it was secretly a way to
give me clothes since, in the case of at least one of these dresses, I was
definitely “between jobs.” This same sister also once bought a sort of
orange-rust-metallic-colored car that looked great in the showroom but out on
the street when the sun reflected on it . . . She didn’t think
she could take it back and say, “Can I try this in another color?” (Or at least
you couldn’t in those days.) So she had to drive it for three years. She also
once bought an apartment and decided it was terrible and she couldn’t live in
it. She put it back on the market and never moved in. I make no comment on this
except that I admire anyone who realizes they’re about to do something that
isn’t going to make them happy and so they make the decision not to do it. The
apartment thing was a little drastic but it’s in the same school.

When Alan and I got engaged, we considered, for a
brief moment, an engagement ring. I borrowed a number of engagement rings, sort
of on consignment, antique diamonds from the ’20s, Victorian diamonds inlaid
with blue sapphires, a yellow canary diamond set in platinum—not at the same
time. I would borrow a piece and wear it for a week or two to see if I liked it.
And then we couldn’t bring ourselves to buy one—we have five kids, three of whom
were in college at the time—and I never quite felt like I deserved it or that we
could afford it. Or that anyone really needs a ring on their finger that’s worth
at least half a year of tuition or more. I think the whole idea, as I’ve said
before, that an engagement ring is supposed to cost one-fifth of your husband’s
annual salary (a figure I’m sure was made up by the jewelry industry) is silly
and unnecessary. I returned them all, and I apologize to all the antique
jewelers who were kind enough to loan them to me. It was sort of fun to wear a
different ring every week for three months though.

I once bought a couch, two couches actually, at a
shop in Santa Monica. A perfectly plain white couch that looked perfect for a
weekend beach house on Long Island. It was ridiculously
in
expensive and the sofa was filled with down! I bought the floor
sample. And I ordered an identical one. The “identical” one came and it wasn’t
identical at all. It had big rounded arms. It was one and half times longer than
the first one. And it was filled with foam. I was living in a tiny apartment
and, in addition to being unbelievably uncomfortable and not what I’d purchased,
it overtook the room. It was right after we’d been burglarized and, on the
advice of the police, we were staying at a small apartment by the beach while we
tried to figure out if there was more to the burglary than met the eye, if we’d
been targeted in some way. I was a little stressed out. And the mistake couch
(which wasn’t my mistake, it was theirs) and the mean Russian lady at Sofa U
Love who
refused
to take the couch back became both
a symbol and a perfect place to transfer all hostile emotion and temper tantrums
about a life that seemed temporarily beyond my control. I make no apologies to
the people at Sofa U Love as they did a similar thing to a friend of mine on a
couch she purchased at their shop in Santa Barbara. After much screaming and
crying on my part and calling the credit card company to cancel the charge, they
finally were coerced into coming and picking it up and I didn’t buy another
one.

But there is a “normal” kind of mistake shopping
that anyone can fall prey to: you’re so set on actually coming home with the
item that you “settle”; or you become so worked up, on a manic spree, you pull
out your credit card and go “whatever”; or you get “tricked” in the store by the
mirror (usually, the bad mirror in the dressing room, i.e., nobody looks good in
that mirror, it will look much better at home); or the salesgirl (or a helpful
bystander, i.e., another customer offering an unsolicited opinion) talks you
into thinking that it’s really cute, I mean, just to die for, and you come home
and it’s a complete disaster.

This happened to me the other day when I was buying
boots. I’d been to seven stores and frankly, I was a little dizzy. The store was
a little glitzy, over the top, and had a name like Footloose and Fancy Free, and
every shoe, Manolo, Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, was displayed on its own
cakelike shelf in a glass display case, mirrored in the back, so the shoe
reflected on itself as if it had been made for dancing. I mean, every shoe
looked like a Cinderella fantasy and they were having a “big” sale.

There were a number of boots on display on a round
table in the front by the cash register. One pair caught my eye, deconstructed,
sort of crinkly, black patent leather knee-high boots with flat heels, and they
had them in my size. They fit over my calves, zipped quite easily, and they were
really comfortable. I was wearing jeans, so it was hard to see what they would
look like if, for example, you were wearing a skirt. (Note to self: always dress
for shopping, wear a camisole and leggings, so at least you can tell what
something looks like on.) Sometimes, shoes look better when you look down at
them than they do from someone else’s point of view. But they were seriously on
sale, and so I bought them.

And when I got them home, they were, well, think
Courrèges except they really weren’t that hip or delicate and if I had anything
left in my closet from Paraphernalia, I definitely wouldn’t try it on. Think
Gloria Vanderbilt.

I knew as soon as I brought them home and opened
the box that they were a mistake. But it was raining and I really wanted
knee-high boots. But then it occurred to me, could you even wear patent leather
in the rain? That didn’t sound like a good idea. So, I shut the box and
conveniently forgot about them for a week or so. The store had a kind of funky
return policy, i.e., you could return things you bought on sale but only within
seven days of the sale date and even then, only for “store credit.” And so they
sit there, in my closet, waiting until someone I’m terribly fond of (or related
to) who is the just right height (and age) and shoe size, and with appropriate
attitude to pull them off, walks in the door needing a new pair of shoes.