muffy bolding

The ever-insightful, delightful, and inimitable Gabriel () and I were emailing yesterday afternoon and discussing, among other fascinating topics, dopplegangers. Pondering the possibilities, it made me wonder what famous people could aptly represent us in our fantasy biopics…and after much thoughtful (and timegobbling) contemplation, I came up with the following:

Robert Sean Leonard as Gabriel Liston:

Nikki Blonsky as Muffy Bolding:

And Elvis Costello as Gregory:

I would definitely pay to see that movie, gottdamnit.

Who on earth do you think should portray you? It can be anyone from any time — even dead people! So, come on — out with it. Who’s your doppleganger, baby?

Thank you for your time — and now…back to my previously scheduled afternoon of mind-numbing, soul-destroying, artery-gouging writer’s block.

Son-of-a-bitch.

I completely forgot how to write.

Christ, I hate when that happens.

Reason #1 that I love my husband:

Because if it turns out there is indeed a heaven…I know for sure there’s definitely a cozy, magical, wondrous corner of it reserved for the amazing men who love, protect, provide for, and gaze adoringly upon another man’s children…just as if they were his very own.

My mendings itch. There is nothing to do.
I shall be good as new.

— Sylvia Plath, The Stones

So, this is what the other side looks like, eh? Right, then. Let’s do this.

First off, please allow me to wholeheartedly thank everyone who called, emailed, texted, sent cards, postcards, letters, zines, books, flowers, balloons, chocolates, gifts, and all manner of good cheer. You have been so incredible in your generosity of self and spirit that, frankly, it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Even now, just thinking about it, I get all weepy and happy and moved. To have so many cherished people wishing you well is quite a powerful thing, believe me, and I am absolutely convinced that it was what brought me through so swimmingly. So, again…from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

As for the tale itself, well, just to clear up any concerns out there and despite breaking all the writerly rules of maintaining suspense by doing so, I’ll give you the end before I give you the beginning:

I am well; less one ovary and completely cancer-free.

Did you catch that? Completely cancer-free.

Aside from joyously announcing the births of my three babies and shouting from the rooftops, “I’M IN LOVE WITH A CUTE JEW BOY!”, I have never written more meaningful nor delightful words in my life.

And speaking of the CJB, he was an absolute rock throughout — taking care of not only me, but the babies, the house, his work, all the wonderful well-wishers, and just bidness in general. Medically speaking, a girl could not hope for a more savage advocate than Gregory. As they were taking me in to pre-op, the nurse suddenly stopped at the door and held her hand up to Gregory and told us to say our good-byes…just like that. Say goodbye here, dear, and then step inside and meet your doom. And so, after handing him my purse and my beloved Black-to-the-berry, I did. I kissed his sweet, sad Wonka face and was then led off shivering and alone.

Well, Gregory, of course, would have none of that. As they were prepping me in Surgeryland and I was meeting with my rockstar doctor and all the nurses who would be attending me, through the foggy fear all I kept hearing them talking about was my husband in the waiting room…the one who was repeatedly calling back there to say that he absolutely had to speak to the anesthesiologist before they could take me in. By the end of my time there, it had become a joke between all the wonderful Filipina nurses and I: Wow. Your husband is quite persistent, isn’t he? And I would answer, Yes, he is! But that is only because he promised and pinkie swore that he would inform the anesthesiologist about all my infernal fears before she puts me under! He is my white knight in a Brooks Brothers shirt! And then they would laugh and laugh. And when I informed them that I was a Filipina, too, they would say, No! But you are too light to be a Filipina!, and I would tell them that my grandfather was, in fact, born in Manila, and they would raise their eyebrows and smile hugely and hug me and hold me and kiss my hands and call all the other Filipinas over to do the same. I felt right at home among my warm, adobo-gobbling island pipples!

And so it went throughout. The entire time, even though I was terrified, all I could do was belly laugh. I belly laughed after they gave me a shot of demerol and started belting, a la Billie Holliday, for the entire surgery suite, It ain’t nobody’s bidness…if I do. I belly laughed after I called the anesthesiologist an “Unscrupulous Agent of Morpheus” just before she knocked my fatass out (she belly laughed, as well!) All in all, despite the fact that I was at times frightened beyond reason, belly laughing is most definitely what made it all bearable.

Afterwards, I regained consciousness and was moved to my room, where I spent my days eating bucketsfull of sugarless cherry jello and watching what seemed to be an endless parade of Jerry Springer and Maury Povich “Who’s My Baby Daddy?” shows — which, by the way, you just know I adored. With my background, I am always riveted and charmed by familial scandal that rivals my own!:

When they started pullin’ hair and kickin’ ass, it made me all teary-eyed and wistful for festive family holidays past. Oh, Yeah!:

Though Gregory stayed with me whenever he could and often conducted all his big boss applesauce vice presidential work from my cozy room, the flowers and treats and balloons cheered me in the long hours that I spent alone, with only Dorothy Parker and an ever-revolving cast of attentive nurses to drink my blood, take my temperature, and ask me, “Have you pooped yet?”:

This hilarious bouquet arrived from miss — and such a hit it was, that a delightfully truculent trio of visiting teenagers attempted to lift it from me while I was in the bathroom trying my goddamndest to leave nursie a little gift in the commode:

And then, I had the bright idea to start texting my friends! And I did! Though, due to the fact that much of the texting was far too racy and scandalous to be replicated here, you shall just get a representative picture of my Blackberry, with Robert Benchley wryly gracing my wallpaper. Swooon!:

Because it serves so much of the entertainment community — especially the Old School Faction — Cedars-Sinai has its very own in-house channel where it delivers up, around the clock, old comedy and variety shows and specials. I was in heaven! Red Skelton! Sammy Davis, Jr.! Uncle Miltie! Flip Wilson! Johnny Cash! Frank Sinatra! Carol Burnett!:

And because the gods were with me and surreptitiously scheduled an I Love Lucy marathon during my stay in hospital, I even got to watch Little Ricky being born! And Lucy stomping grapes and kicking ass! It was awesome! Though I definitely realized something after watching so much old television: As a culture, we have lost our ability to be genuine. Everything that amuses or entertains us must either be caustic or ironic. Watching all those shows made me see that there was a time in this country where we could just purely laugh for the sake of laughing. Those days are gone. So long!:

At one point, in all my channel clicking, I stumbled across an interview with one of my favorite poets and gods of all time, W.S. Merwin…and almost had to buzz the nurse to come jump start my heart! Swooooooon, once again!:

And as soon as I was able, I would shuffle over to the window to survey Beverly Hills down below and West Hollywood up above. As I stood there, I just kept thinking to myself, “Britney and her bald cooter and filthy feet are out there somewhere…staggering the streets with a Starbucks cup and Kitson bag in one hand and a miserable, stinking chihuahua in the other, no doubt. God, I love this city!”:

But for much of the time, I just gazed over at the amazing face of my sweet pig in his window perch, busy with caring and advocating for me…and keeping me coated with kisses and affection. Oh, and always feeling the intense Blackberry love while he did it!:

“Honey, did you know that the Dow is down 30 points and The Fed is threatening to cut the prime interest rate a FULL percent? Jesus, these bastards are fucking with my portfolio! MUST. CHECK. MARKET. TICKER.”

“Wait…fuck the Fed. Here’s a picture of Linda Fiorentino’s supple hooters on BigUns.com! Say, is that a stirring in my loins?”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me. The Mayo Clinic advises that sexual intercourse should be avoided for six full weeks after major pelvic surgery!?”

“Ah, but it goes on to add that there are several satisfying alternatives to intercourse that can be employed in the interim. What’s that you are always saying about you and the chrome on a trailer hitch, honey?”

That perch, by the way, is the same one that one of the marvelously gossipy Filipina nurses told me was precisely where Brad Pitt parked his rock-hard ass for several months late last year when his mother-in-law, the gentle and lovely Marcheline Bertrand, was being treated for ovarian cancer. She, in fact, died in the same bed that I called home.

Actually, the entire time I was ensconced there, I had ghosts on the brain, the ghosts of several of the vibrant, talented women who were taken by the same insidious disease that was threatening me: Joan Hackett. Sandy Dennis. Madeline Kahn. and Gilda.

Goddamnit, I love Gilda.

Having just looked down the barrel at ovarian cancer in a very real way myself — and now, because of this incident, having to be en garde for it for the rest of my life — I realize how lucky I am to have been treated and cared for at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in the world’s most famous and esteemed Gynecologic Oncology Department on the planet…home of The Gilda Radner Ovarian Cancer Detection Center, which was established after her death by her one true love, Gene Wilder. Not all the women treated for this disease get a happy ending like mine, and I intend to never forget my good fortune — nor the loving and ardent support of Gregory throughout the entire experience. I owe him my very life — in more ways than I shall ever be able to adequately communicate or repay. Suffice it to say, we are like peas and carrots to the very end, he and I. He is my one true love.

At any rate, after the slicing&dicing was complete, the nurses were amazed and delighted at how quickly I was up and around and how many laps I and my IV pole were able to take around their floor, while most of the others like me were still flat on their backs, writhing in agony. I simply explained to them I am carny trash and that we don’t take well to all that lying around nonsense. After all, there are grapes to pick, laundry to wring, midway rides to set-up and break down, fries to drop, cheating husbands to retrieve from gin joints, power shut-off notices to pay with hot checks, delinquent rent to skip out on in the middle of the night, and babies to squat out in the middle of the fields! Before I left, they had all signed a get well card and presented it to me — with the affectionate admonition to take advantage of the situation and lounge around for as long as I could. I let loose with one last belly laugh and parade waved at them all as I was wheeled down the hall and back out into the real world. Clownie don’t play that lying around horseshit. I’M BUTCH!!

And, so, on to what you have all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen…mesdames et messieurs…because you just know you wanna see it; I give you:

Frankencooter

Greetings, all – it’s the husband again. Just talked w/ the surgeon. Although it’ll take a bit for the official report to come in, he’s confident the tumor was benign and that Muffy is fine. I can breathe again.

Thanks to EVERYONE for your kind notes and thoughts. Muffy will be in the hospital for a couple more days, but I expect you’ll be hearing from her before then.

This picture represents the whole of my day yesterday:

Go ahead…take a good, close look at it, my friends. Won’t you join me in embracing the horror that is my life right now?

Yes, that is cherry Jello, Dulcolax, Earl Grey tea, Rescue Remedy, chicken bouillon, and an enema. Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly. I said THAT IS A LAXATIVE AND A FUCKING ENEMA. Yeah. And those are baby wipes and air-freshener. You’re a smart cookie; I’m sure you can piece together the bigger picture.

So, as you have probably ascertained all on your own, I am on a liquid diet and have, since yesterday morning, eaten nothing today but sips of the foodstuffs you see before you. Though outwardly I look like a bitter, aged Beth Ditto, trust me, on the inside I am Mary Kate Olsen. I would silently murder my own mother if it meant that my fatass could eat an entire large movie popcorn, dripping in butter and salt, all by myself. I would boil and eat my own children right now if I thought I could get away with it (lord knows, they are tender and succulent enough!)

Because I am at long last having my surgery today, rockstar doctor left us with strict pre-op orders, which, of course, Cancerian Jewish Doctor’s son has me following to a T. Between the Dulcolax and the enema within, I just cannot seem to hold my mud! But that, I suppose, is exactly the desired effect. This house, so to speak, is clean.

At any rate, in about four hours, I shall be laid out on the slab, opened up, and the wicked orange that started all this pesky hullabaloo shall be removed from my sacred temple, i.e., my bloody guts. Be gone, foul citrus, I say! Off with you!

As per the queerness of my little family, at least two children have already sweetly, but firmly, requested that said everlovin’ tumor be encased in glass and formaldehyde for display on our fireplace mantle. I have more than half a mind to do it, too. It’s my tumor, after all, isn’t it? I should be able to doll it up and show it off if I want to! Hey, maybe I shall even charge admission! It’ll be like a right proper carnival sideshow, just like my great granny might have put on. I shall be proud to wear the noble midway mantle of my gypsy ancestors. Goddamnit, I am fancy!

So, with Gregory standing here stamping his cute hoof, I should go, as my chariot awaits me. If you have any good thoughts to spare this day, please send them my way — my queerish little family could use ’em. Wish me luck and I shall see everyone on the other side.

Love, love, love to everybody.

Gosh, I feel like a fucking Make-A-Wish kid!

Early Saturday morning, after a treacherous month of being in and out of hospitals, doctor’s offices, imaging labs, and drug stores, Gregory asked what I wanted to do and told me to choose anything…anything at all. So, being the carny trash that I am, I of course chose The Los Angeles County Fair! Longtime readers know my family has deep roots in the carnival circuit, and that I come from a long line of sideshow performers, midway artists, and carnival concessionaires, so consequently I feel right at home cavorting amongst the neon, the cheap stuffed animals, and my tweaking, toothless carny bretheren.

After a full day and night of thrilling fun and non-stop eating, allow me to say that I have been to many state fairs in my day, but LA’s extravaganza is the mightiest of them all — completely dazzling, spit-spot, and filled with the loveliest unwashed masses I have seen in some time, which was a great treat for me, to be sure. You see, I live in an upscale suburban community (sidenote: if you live in LA and want to send your kids to public school, you gotta vampirically live where the money is, even if you don’t necessarily have it yourself, because the moneyed pricks don’t fuck around when it comes to their kids’ education), so unfortunately, most of the faces I see on a daily basis are of the white, upper-middle-class, tennis skirt-wearing, Mercedes SUV-driving, Republican sort — but that is most definitely not where my tawdry fatass comes from.

Despite the fact that I have the epidermic pallor of Wednesday Addams, I come from a fierce tribe with brown faces and spicy tongues. My people are ethnic mongrels, which is, of course, precisely what makes us such relentless, hearty, stalwart bastards — we don’t stop for anyone or anything. We are like scrappy, robust pound puppies. Our way is to push on through to the other side, come what fucking may. My husband — who comes from highly educated, upper-middle-class, fragile porcelain mouse stock — is continuously mystified at the conditions under which I will continue to trudge on. My ability (and desire) to continue working when I should probably be hospitalized is stupefying to him — and also quite maddening. It is one of the very few issues on which we disagree — but coming from the working class, for me there is nothing to understand: you work, sick or not, or your babies don’t eat. Period.

So, understandably, it’s always amusing to me that the world has its own notions about the nature of true Angelenos. Well, please allow me to share with you a little secret: For every shallow, worthless, piece-of-shit Paris Hilton here in The City of Angels, there are a million beautiful, decent, hard working brown faces, as well. This is Los Angeles, my friends:

As for the fair itself, it was just tremendous and I highly recommend attending if you are ever in the area. Coming from a carnival background, I just couldn’t believe how tidy and maintained the whole shindig was. Even the midway was gorgeous!

And some of it was just exactly, precisely, wonderfully what you expect when you haul your fatass down the midway:

Along with the usual fair attractions, there were special delights around every corner that thrilled me to my very core — like an entire miniature world, complete with several running trains, floating boats, and friendly family motels:

There was even a miniature Randy’s Donuts, surrounded by lazy, racist cops…just like the original!:

Strolling along the midway with Gregory, I was reminded of my own youth spent on rickety, nauseating thrill rides…and even caught sight of the humble Zipper, which was the undisputed Granddaddy of Terror when I was a kid growing up in Fresno, California:

Of course, poor thing looks almost downright provincial now, standing next to some of the flailing, neon monsters these kids dare to ride today:

Ah! And the food! What would a trip to the fair be without copious amounts of chow? The assault on your senses is epic, even in hell. Never in my life have I seen such a glorious and varied assortment of vittles in one place. The smell alone is sinful, even to my persnickety vegan nostrils:

And sweet treats served up in kitschy pink huts to women with thick-waisted, diabetic body-types. Hey, just like me!:

And the livestock! Adorable mama pigs:

And adorable papa pigs, as well:

And, I have to tell you, the music was just amazing. This trio played us some tunes from various locales around Latin America:

While these mesmerizing young maidens spontaneously stepped forward from the crowd and beguiled us with their dancing. Watching them, I, of course, began to weep at their beauty, their youth, and their passion for the moment — and at the profound realization that it is always the young women, just coming into their power, who most embody the heart of a people:

From my perch in the skyway up above, I could see the entire expanse of midway humanity stretched out before me — and it was breathtaking:

But the best part was not the corn dogs (although they were yummy!) or the miniature world (though it thrilled me to my very core!). It was spending the day with my greatest friend in the world. When all is said and done, no matter what happens to me in this life, I have had the distinct privilege of loving and being loved by this amazing person:

And as carny kids to the very end, we shall wipe the mustard from our faces and rise up and rule the world:

Other than the far-too-early deaths of two of my most influential heroes and inspirations, Gilda Radner and Madeleine Kahn (both, ironically, from ovarian cancer), I can’t remember when the world of funny women has taken such a monumental hit as this past month.

First Brett Somers, a delightfully bawdy dame I used to hurry home to watch every day after school on Match Game. She made me not only want to grow up and make my living making people laugh, but also showed me that hanging out with fabulous and outrageous gay men was definitely what I wanted to do with my life. The banter between she and Charles Nelson Reilly used to make me scream with belly laughter — even though I was just a little kid. In retrospect, I know now that my future aspirations were fully coalesced even then: Professionally, I wanted to be a comedy writer and actor, and personally, I wanted to be a fag hag. I am pleased to say that I have made good on both dreams, and interestingly enough both of my daughters seem to have followed my footsteps both into the arts and into the gay clubs. My youngest tootsie is even accompanying a darling gay boy to the Homecoming Dance next month — and trust me, the talk of MAC eye pencil and Christian Louboutin shoes is epic, even in hell. Hurray for being surrounded at all times by fabulous and loving gay men!

And as if the departure of Miss Brett to regions beyond was not hideous enough, we also lost Alice Ghostley last month, also a hugely important figure in the development of who and what I am. My friend, Billy, is making a film about the life of Paul Lynde, and I learned while editing the script that it was widely acknowledged in the business that Lynde had shrewdly appropriated Ghostley’s voice, her delivery, and her schtick and made it his own. But what is not so widely known is that she, in turn, had stolen it from the wickedly sardonic Eve Arden — the only difference being that Ghostley readily admitted her theft. There is nothing wrong with standing on the shoulders of giants — as artists, we all do it. The difference is, only true genius will own it. Alice Ghostley was a true genius.

Miss Brett and Miss Alice…thanks for all the belly laughs and for all the dreams. You will be missed.

Disease, pain, and the unknown can fuck off, lady. I am delighted and content.

How could I not be…with a cozy family, the sound of rain falling outside my window, and a sky over my head that looks like this:

Reason #17,237 that I adore my husband:

Despite the fact that he is a right proper and dignified person — and not generally prone to outlandish public behavior (like his lunatic wife) — when we are out on adventures he will quite often lovingly indulge me when I implore, “Oh, please, sweet Mr. Pig…won’t you do it for me just this once? Please, please, please!”