One Saturday when I was 10, my mother took me to Sunset Plaza to have lunch with one of her friends. There, I sat sipping lemonade after lemonade and eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations–at least those within earshot. When I came home, I wrote the following poem.
In retrospect it makes me laugh. I got some details so right, like men trading in their wives for newer models. But I also got some details so wrong, like a woman ever forgetting she signed a prenup!
Still, I love this poem mostly because it proves I’ve always been obsessed with the dynamics of romantic relationships. Of lust and love and financial loss. A friend of mine who writes young adult literature once described my fiction as “Jackie Collins on Pixy Sticks.” This poem is the earliest and best example of that.
I’m sick of women in faux minks doing lunch and talking about their shrinks.
“Oh, dahling! I went to Gucci the other day,” says the overweight woman whose hair is now platinum not gray.
Chin Chin on Sunset is their stompin’ ground and upon chicken salad they feed like royal hounds.
In their Bel Air mansions they swim whenever they please. All day long noshing on gourmet crackers and imported cheese.
But while they’re at home eating snacks and getting obese, their husbands are with beautiful women in Paris, Milano, and Greece.
One day this woman’s diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the brain drives her husband completely insane.
“I’ve had it, you horrible creature. Shut up! And don’t you forget I got you to sign a prenup. I have a 20 year old girlfriend and we’re going to wed. She looks like Nicole Kidman and yes, we’ve to been to bed. My attorney is sending you papers; I filed for divorce. Now get out of my house and take your damn horse!”
This woman runs, jumps, and attacks her husband’s new girl. Strips her of all clothing; cuts off every rouge curl.
She’s in a straight jacket as cops take her away.
Rotting in a jail cell, she remains today.
No one’s there to listen to her scream.
No one’s there to feed her bonbons with cream.
Once an exquisite creature, now a neurotic mess.
The life of an L.A. woman isn’t that great you must confess.