So what in life do you most want, love, need? If you had to do without it, what would make you miserable?
Me, my eyelids have less hair than Patrick Stewart’s bald head. I can’t survive without false lash glue. And, since Our Father Which Art in the Makeup Room created eyebrows with what he didn’t stick on my lids, I also require industrial strength tweezers. Pliers would be better.
Dogs. My pesty cranky Yorkies I love so much I’d leave them my apartment if they could pay the maintenance. Juicy, 3 ¹/₂ pounds of pure selfish, would dump me for the Ayatollah if he fed her. Brother Jazzy, 4 ¹/₂ pounds, is a carpenter who does odd jobs around the house.
And the vet bills? Doctoring them costs more than my husband in his last years of life. But what am I going to do — sell them?
A lady who has a career, apartment, country place, car, driver, housekeeper, healthy child, invitations, social life, bulging clothes closet, nice past, nice life, nice future told me the one thing she desperately claims she can’t exist without? Two words: “A nap.”
Obama, suffering from “I” strain, I didn’t ask. He hears a clap of thunder, he takes a bow. Besides his chief need, which is to sit in the audience and watch himself, the lone personal thing he wants is maybe a new religion. He already thinks he’s God.
Molly? “I’m 71. What do you think I want? A man.” When particularly might she want him? “What’re you, nuts? At any hour . . .”
“. . . but also, every morning, if you’re asking what I must have and definitely absolutely under no circumstances can not manage without? We’re talking a bagel. With cream cheese.”
Is that to be enjoyed with or without the man? “Listen, it could be instead. Also, a box of Mallomars.”
Nazalene. Mother, mother-in-law, grandma, sister, home in Brooklyn, relatives. Healthy. Works. Not rich but OK and craves three things: 1) Cellphone she can work so she can “yap” with friends. 2) Chocolate. Any. Godiva, Teuscher, Lindt, Nestle, white, sweet, dark, bitter, a Hershey kiss that fell on the floor . . . And 3) junk bracelets. Her wrists jangle with bangles, even broken, from street fairs.
Robin Williams I didn’t ask. He wants a TV hit. Hillary I didn’t ask. Even Albanians know what she wants.
And Huma I didn’t ask. We know what she doesn’t want. Unfortunately, that husband would be good as mayor. Weiner might throw great parties. He’d ask the butler: “What wine goes best with Alpo?”
Which brings me to Eliot Spitzer, to whom absolutely nobody wants anyone to bring them to. He craves only power. However, I think he could be elected to Congress — anything to get him out of town.
Miley Cyrus? Whose body has gone to her head? Inquire what she can’t do without and the answer might be: a brain.
Virginia wants “A new Armani jacket.” Valerie? “Pair of killer Manolos.” Lois? “A good book.” Fran? “Flats. For evening wear.”
The mildly gorgeous want Botox, face-lift, nose job, tummy tuck or a decent mother-in-law. Also concealer for under the eye.
The fashionistas. Something called Tinsley Mortimer lists her overwhelming need as “skinny cords, over-the-knee riding boots, chunky cable knits and large oversize bags.”
The longtime couples. One husband I know is straining for a divorce. He calls his wife by her maiden name, “plaintiff.” A highlight of their marriage? The blood test.
The chunkies: A type who wears two girdles, upper and lower, says her urgent need, without which she cannot live, is an understanding diet doctor. What’s that mean? “One who can put the vitamins in cake and ice cream instead of cod liver oil and spinach.”
I’m hearing JPMorgan Chase’s embattled CEO Jamie Dimon eagerly pants after a trip to Hawaii. Why? For his respiratory problems. Why? Because the government isn’t letting him breathe easy.