Suzy Says

I was awakened this morning by someone shouting, “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” angrily and repeatedly. I lay in bed, wondering what the answer was until curiosity overcame me and I peeked out the window.

There was an ancient-looking man, intoxicated, insane, and irate, walking out of the courtyard, gesturing at no-one (no-one visible, anyway) and screaming the age old, unanswerable question at the uncaring sky.

I discovered that Santa had come early this year, and had broken with tradition by substituting the oh-so-fashionable germ warfare for the usual stocking full of coal for those of us who are habitually naughty rather than nice. A seasonable, but so far, small-sized case of a flu-like illness. I never thought Santa would look like a crazy homeless guy, but then again, so many things are disappointing as an adult. Undoubtedly, an efficiency expert told him to get the bad ones out of the way early, and don’t bother dressing up for the likes of them.

With even more excuse than usual to languish and lounge, I checked out the December issue of Vanity Fair. The Letters section was frothing with rage about the November issue’s cover starring Paris Hilton. I thought I was underemployed until I saw the letters from rabid readers who angily cancelled their subscriptions and/or tore off the offending cover and mailed it back to the magazine with their complaints.

The most amusing letter for me was from none other than Mama Partridge herself, Miss Shirley Jones, she whose TV son was arrested for beating up a TV hooker, and whose catalogue of his many, many misdeeds can be found in his very entertaining and well-written memoir, Random Acts of Badness. As far as I know, Miss Jones never publicly railed against Mr. Bonaduce for being a bad role model, and I would venture to say that being a socialite who likes to have her photo taken is not as bad as being arrested for assault or being a crackhead.

But that’s just me.

Being an equal opportunity reader, I decided to check out La Hilton’s memoirs, too. However, they are less of an autobiography and more of a picture book. On the other hand, I did get diet tips, which, as you may recall, my dream girl wouldn’t give me:

Eat fast food, pasta, and chocolate as often as you can. Only eat carbs at night. Never take diet pills or drink diet soda or go to the gym. You might get sweaty.

And words of wisdom on topics of vital importance:

On tiaras: People act differently toward you when you have jewelry on your head.

On skincare: I’m over tanning beds, because I don’t want to get skin cancer. Mystic Tan instead. Be tan all year round. I go to sleep with my makeup on, because it makes my skin look all dewy, and there’s less to do in the morning.

On my beloved Weeki Wachee Springs: My first job (on the Simple Life 2) was at Weeki Wachee, a kids’ place with an underwater show. I got to play a mermaid. It was kind of stupid, but Elvis has been there, so that makes it kind of cool

On public transit: Yes, I admit I’ve taken the subway in New York – and it smells. It literally smells like pee. Why can’t they do anything about that? Does anyone ever clean down there?

And unlike the rest of us insecure girls, she only hates one thing about her body. It’s her size 11 (transvestite sized!) feet.