Dear Blanka,
Remember when you said you “forgave” me for my movie? Well, I don’t forgive you for saying that. I am sorry that I questioned whether you were a real lesbian. That was lame of me and you clearly are a lesbian. I love lesbians. But you know what else is lame? Your neon overalls. D. J. Tanner called and she wants her wardrobe back so it can be included in a museum retrospective about the prime years of Full House.
Ugh, get it together!
LD
Dear Blanky Blankham, We had been friends since fourth grade. You used to bring flowers to my screen door, take me out on the lake in your dinghy, show me how to catch frogs. We had a childhood together. So when I gave you a blow job (MY FIRST) on the day my cat died, you should have called. Your total disappearance made so many sweet memories feel so grimy. I found out about your fiancée on Facebook. How many inches taller than you is she? Like, ten? The fact that the government lets you fly planes seems insane.
Your little friend, Lena
p.s. I never picked up the cat’s ashes because I associated it with giving blow jobs and being abandoned. When I finally got up the courage to collect them two years later, they had been thrown into a mass grave. I blame you.
THIS IS THE NAME of the memoir I’m going to write when I’m eighty. You know, once everyone I’ve met in Hollywood is dead.
It will be a look back at an era when women in Hollywood were treated like the paper thingies that protect glasses in hotel bathrooms—necessary but infinitely disposable.
It will be excerpted in Vanity Fair along with photos of me laughing at a long-ago premiere, wearing a pom-pom strapped to my head, sipping a cran and seltzer, subtly pregnant with my first set of twins.
It will be endorsed by the female president, and I’ll enjoy a real surge in popularity with college girls writing term papers on the history of the gender gap.
I can’t wait to be eighty.
So I can have an “oeuvre”—or at least a “filmography.”
So I can impress my grandkids with my brooch collection.
So I can send things back in restaurants without shame and use a wheelchair at the airport.
So I can shock people by saying “rim job” in casual conversation.
So I can dye my bowl cut orange.
And so I can name names. Delicious, vengeful names. And I won’t give a shit about doing battle with someone’s estate because I’ll be eighty and, quite possibly, the owner of seventeen swans.
I’ll tell everyone about what the men I met in Hollywood said to me that first whirlwind year:
“I just want to protect you.”
“I know we just met, but I consider you a close friend.”
“You’re a funny girl.”
“You’re a clever kid.”
“I’ll bet you never say no.”
“You should be a little more grateful.”
“You’re prettier than you let yourself be.”
“I hope your boyfriend makes you feel good. You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”
“You know, a lot of men can’t handle a powerful woman.…”
“You’ve grown very cute since I last ran into you.”
I’ll recount all the interactions where I went from having an engaging conversation on craft with a man to hearing about his sexual dissatisfaction with his wife, who used to be passionate and is currently on fertility drugs. Suddenly, we’re talking about the way his college girlfriend left her boots on when she fucked and how marriage is “a lot of hard work.”
What that translates to is: My wife doesn’t turn me on and you aren’t a model but you sure are young and probably some bold new sexual moves have emerged since the last time I was single in 1992 so let’s try it and then you can go back to being married to your work and I’ll go back to being married to an “eco-friendly interior decorator” and I’ll never watch any of your films again.
I’ll talk about how I never fucked any of them. I fucked guys who lived in vans, guys who shared illegal lofts with their ex-girlfriends who were away at Coachella, guys who were into indigenous plant life, and guys who watched PBS.
But I never fucked them.
I’ll talk about the way these relationships fell apart as soon as they realized I wasn’t going to be anyone’s protégée, pet, private fan club, or eager plus-one.
The subtle accusation: “You’re not so easy to track down.”
The sensitive inquiry: “What’s goin’ on here, honey?”
The rageful indictment: “You’re a bullshit liar. Doesn’t anyone your age have any fucking manners?”