Easy Meet

Go-getting Bettie rendezvous with Big Frank in the Big Apple before their even-bigger flight across the Atlantic.

I’m not sure what was more stupid: that in the wake of 9/11… 10… er, 11… Big Frank’s choice of el cheapo airline was the Arab-stuffed fuselage of Air Islamabad or that my diary’s Word of the Day for today was: Tchotchke. Being the only passenger to leave the airplane not in a burka, is it any wonder that I fell under the watchful eyes of the hyper-tense TSA officers? Guess it was also not the day to test-drive the new La Perla Underwire G-String, either.

Still, at least having eight hours of solitary confinement meant I could simmer down from my stepsister scrap-fest, and catch up on action items for my overnight in the Rotten Apple:

(1)  Rendezvous with husband #3

(2)  Overnight in Manhattan

(3)  Witness Wanda’s new hairdo

(4)  Leave country forever

I really didn’t know which I wanted to do least.

Already with an attitude set to ‘shred on sight’, I wasn’t best pleased to find that Big Frank was nowhere to be found. Typical, as this left me to dodge the herds of Save-A-Soul extremists barring my way between baggage reclaim and the real world. In the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Xevadiah, they were trying to raise much needed cash for distraught victims. I settled on a combined clothing and food parcel: an Alexander McQueen Spring Casuals collection and twelve dozen Beluga bagels, all to be airlifted to starving survivors at the Gramercy Park rooftop restaurant.

Finding Big Frank, our luggage and a cab all in the same New York minute, we finally arrived at the Waldorf=Astoria at the stroke of midnight. Salvation! Well, that was until I walked into our twelfth-floor pied-à-terre and found that Big Frank’s Girl Friday had booked us a double bed. Well, that just wasn’t happening. But, instead of insisting we move hotels, I gave him my spare pajamas. They were far too small, but I insisted, saying, “If I roll over in the night and touch your naked flesh, I’ll be sick.”

Next morning I set off to meet Wanda, my NYC girlfriend. Our midday meet-up hardly filled me with glee as Wanda is a bon vivant, fashionista and ten years my junior. Not sure exactly what Wanda does for a living. Mostly she seems to just stand around and look fabulous. Her latest tweet was all about her new blood-red bouffant – ‘Dear friends, by the time you read this I will be red…’ – and now I was to see it for myself. “Whatcha think?” the fur-coated pop-tart asked, on the curb outside that half-peeled Guggenheim place. I told her it was ‘beyond intensity’, but – really – it made her look like a cherry-flavored Charms Blow-pop stuck to a Chinchilla’s back.

Still, no time for dawdling, for it was off to the hotel ready for transfer to JFK Airport. Next stop: Jolly Olde England.

Veni, Vidi… Vices!

After a swift round of free whiffies, Bettie announces her departure to her stepsister, Muffy, and finds that – guess what! – mother wouldn’t approve.

Do you know what really pisses me off about people, diary? Those that think just because they can spell Châteauneuf-du-Pape, they’re good enough to drink it. Y’know, the sort who name their daughter ‘Lasagna’ because it sounds exotic. And at the Courtney Pines Golf Course Gym and HydraSpa, the place’s just full of ’em.

It didn’t start good.

As I swaggered into the lounge, I spotted my stepsister immediately. Muffy was surrounded by her usual playboy set. I recognised nobody, but guessed the gang included Skip, Chip, Kip and Blip, followed by a couple of Binkies, a few Jockies and a Bunny. How’d I know this? Because a duffer without a stupid nickname is like a Kennedy without a criminal record. I tried to act casual, but blew it all when I ordered everyone a round. Hey, how was I to know that the “Free Whiffy” they were pushing on the sign outside was a geeky Web connection, not a drinks promotion?

As I said: it didn’t start good, and it didn’t get any better.

Cosmos in both hands, Muffy looked me up and down and commented how I was looking tired and bloated. “Let me sign you in upstairs for a session at Salon Tanfastic,” she suggested, ever the queen of the passive-aggressive put-down. I told her nah, sorry, I don’t do tanning – which is true as I’m one of the few people who think they were actually born the right color.

Seeing this was going to get ugly, Skip and the gang vamoosed, giving some reason I can’t quite remember. Best guess? Probably to de-lint the Lyle and Scott lambswool from their navels. Perfectly alone now but for the cocktail waiter, sommelier, maître d’, and three busboys, I announced my imminent departure as casually as if I were ordering vegan at a LongHorns. The Muffster looked gratifyingly shocked. And you could so tell she’d never heard of the Isle of Man. Probably thought it was some all-male harem in Casablanca. Still, no way was I going to let her geographical ignorance slide. Ut-uh. I’d brought a map.

“Mother will never approve,” Muffy said at last, after several minutes squinting at the tiny green blotch on page 146 of The Reader’s Digest Atlas To Places Americans Have Never Heard Of. I hate to admit it, but she was 100% correct. My stepmother never approved of anything, ever. It was her defining principle. The contributing fact that her-mother-not-mine was currently chained to a table at the Lake Erie Facility for the Terminally Bewildered loudly proclaiming she had been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica meant sis was certainly odds-on with her current bet that, no, the USS Invincible would not approve.

Still, I couldn’t let it go at that.

“Mother’s on another planet,” I said. “All I’ll be is on another continent. Get over it.” Just with a touch more color.

I came. I swore. I conquered. Mission accomplished.

Knocking back my third Cherry Bitch, I said my ciaos and set off for the Cleveland Frequent Flyer cocktail fiesta. Because, after an afternoon in the bar with the Muffinator, boy, did I need a drink.

Every One’s A Woman

Beleaguered Bettie starts saying her farewells to her all-female family – and finds that maybe she’s not too bothered about leaving the States after all.

Hi, diary, I’m back. Just catching a few moments to chart the next stage of my intrepid endeavours. Truth is, this week I have been gearing myself up to leave behind my house, car, family, friends, country – and twelve sizable suitcases of designer shoes that won’t fit in my triple-extended baggage allowance. Quick tip: Boy, do you all want to get down to the Reno Goodwill this weekend.

In the run-up to our departure, one thing I did have was lots of time to prepare. Y’see, about a year into husband #2, I vowed never to drink while working again – and I’ve never touched a job since – and this new-found freedom certainly suited the sudden flurry of panic at packing my worldly possessions ready to go, go, go! I also guessed I should at least attempt to see my family one last time.

To put things into perspective: me and mine hail from that great rubber capital known as Akron, Ohio, which is a fact that I don’t reveal too often. If asked, I say ‘Midwest’ and hope they think Chicago. If pressed, I mention a terrible childhood sports accident that scarred my lady bits for life and the subject gets dropped quicker than a Size 12 model at a Cosmopolitan photoshoot. As grannie used to say, “The reason is that this neck of the backwoods is full of people born with all their taste in their mouths.” After suffering the Akron Women’s Country Club Annual Moose Bake since puberty, when I married a man from Reno, I was on the next flight. Still if I’m heading to Europe for a while, the least I can do is pop my head around the lacy-curtained door and say, “Buh-bye.”

I consulted my maid, Firenze – her name’s actually Florence, but I like to speak her language – about my dilemma. I mean, for God’s sakes, I couldn’t see all of them. She asked who’s on the list. Well, for a start, there’s my hypochondriac stepmother (aka the USS Invincible) who’s signed up for so much surgery they’ve removed more bits of her than are left. There’s her trio of weird sisters – my aunts: Pissie Chrissie, Moanie Joannie and Weenie Jeannie. My Jewish princess cousin, who’s married to the ultra religious ex-Scottish laird, Uncle Thomas Feckswithin III. Cousin Irena with the crumbling shoulders… She stopped me there.

“Maybe, signora,” she said, “You pick the one with the biggest mouth and let them do the rest.”

Sound advice, I thought as I swapped her green card for a pink slip.

Two days later, I was in my rented Dodge Durango and on my way to Courtney Pines Golf Course to beg an audience with my evil stepsister, Muffy. That’s her preppie name, by the way. She was Maleficent all the time I knew her. Muffy is one of those annoying bitches who exercises for fun. You know the type. I, on the other hand, exercise not because I want to live longer, but I want to die thinner.

So as I strode into the Members-Only Gin Lounge, I knew this was gonna get interesting…

Thirty-nine Forever

Fresh from Mesa Palms, Reno, Bettie finds that losing husbands is far easier than keeping her mind.

Look, diary, I’m Bettie and you gotta understand, outside of checks, I don’t usually do actual writing, so feel yourself privileged that I’m putting ballpoint to book here. The reason? Well, seems I’m about to embark on the kinda weird adventure that makes an Argentinian flap-wax look like a walk in the park. What’s about to happen is as far out of my comfort zone as my evil stepsister is out of her ever-loving mind. So I thought I’d keep a record just in case. Just in case, you ask? Well, the way my third husband’s been acting lately, it might be all the evidence I need to get off murder in the first. So, intros over. Let’s start filling you in on reality here…

Ah, which to lose first: my husband or my mind?

Y’see, life as a go-getting, thirty-something career woman is not all cheap wine, fast cars and hot tubs. Hey, highrolling hurts, buddy – as does relocating continents. Still, as my grannie used to say, “It’s all part of life’s rich tapas bar.”

Husband #3 is pretty fresh out the gate but, to be fair, it started out the big easy. He was, bless his whitie-tighties, owner of Bazongas, which as you no doubt know is the world’s largest nudist casino. He had slots down every aisle. He had nipples on the baize of thirty tables. He had cashflow. And then he goes and ruins it all by investing every last extorted cent in an online gambling den he’s calling ‘39-4-Ever.com’. Now I can’t say I wasn’t touched. I mean, not every woman has a casino named after her – even if it is a virtual one – and Big Frank is the kind of guy who thinks things like that are sweet.

The real trouble came when he told me that to run this new venture we were moving. To an island. Off England. Immediately, I put the brakes on. I was, like, no way, buster. Now while I have never had a good word to say about  Mesa Palms, Reno – I mean, it’s no hotbed for taste, that’s for sure – that doesn’t mean I want to desert the desert and run to the hills of some rock in Europe. The Isle of Man’s hardly Manhattan. And cornered, Big Frank agreed. But as the good old U S of A didn’t look too kindly on gambling – unless it came to its economy – we couldn’t exactly run it anywhere on American soil.

I tried to put the kibosh on it again, saying that hurricane season was just not the time to go flying. Especially out of New York City, what with Hurricane Xevadiah blowing all the homosexuals into the ocean by order of that Sarah Palin 2.0 woman… But my pleas fell on deaf ears. The best my darling husband could do was advise me on not packing skirts.

I said London was as far as I’d go.