veruca salt ain’t got nothing on me.
There is a knot in my back. Right by my shoulder blade. I really, really, really need a massage therapist.
Sometimes I take a look around at my friends and realize that I’m missing some important people in my life. Some of my friends are just standing around wasting their bodies instead of contributing to the good of the group whole.
Sure, they’re all funny, but do we need that many funny people? Like, use the funny as a hobby or something, but find a useful talent for the group.
Like our bartender friends. Now they are contributing to the group as a whole. That’s important. Same with the friends with the connections. The ones that know how to talk to important people. I’m grateful to the friends that own theatres, or manage theatres, or know people that manage theatres. The friends that took it upon themselves to own nice cars, or get condos in vacation cities. The friends that have free long distance service, or a big porch, or run your column in a newspaper. The friends that own websites, or television stations. These are all people working for the greater cause.
But I’ve got some serious gaps in my friends. Perhaps you know someone or you yourself would like to apply.
I need a massage therapist. I need someone who absolutely loves to rub knots and kinks out of shoulder blades. Bonus points to someone who knows how to rub wrists or feet. I swear, the one thing you can always count on by dating a trained actor is that you’re dating someone who knows how to give a good backrub. This is what’s infuriating about dating Eric. I know he knows. I was in the same class he was when we all had to sit in a circle and rub on each other. I’m pretty sure I saw him really trying to work a kink out of some girl’s clavicle way back then before we were involved. Where has all of that knowledge gone? I haven’t forgotten how to do it. Sometimes I’ll offer to rub his back, figuring that I’m gaining collateral for some other time when I’m really stressed or sick. No such luck. I never get the reciprocal. It’s so not fair.
I need a music mogul. Or someone involved enough in the music scene that I don’t have to worry about buying tickets for concerts. I just go backstage because that’s what I’m expected to do. No lines, no fretting, no expensive credit card bills, no possible missed chances. Just me, Dave Grohl, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Rock on.
I need a chef. Or a friend who knows how to cook. I think, now, that I do have a couple of like-to-cook friends (see Cute Single Boy of the Week 1, Trejo). But they just cook for themselves on their back porches. What good does that do me? None. I need someone who’s like, “Oh, I just finished making this lasagna, and it’s way too much for me to eat. And I knew you were working late, so I thought I’d bring it over. Here’s some milk, too, because I know you’re out.)
One of my friends that loves to cook lives in the same apartment complex that I do. Does she bring me extra enchiladas? No. No, she doesn’t. It’s just rude, really. Check it out, when I’m not in town, I totally let her and her husband just roam around my house feeding my cats and protecting my house from evil. Do they thank me with free food? No. I think Weldon left a cigarette in one of my ashtrays, but it’s not the same thing.
Maybe my friends are just hiding their talents from me. That’s selfish, really.
I need a chauffeur. Someone who wants nothing more than to drive me around and have a mocha latte waiting when he/she picks me up. I’m too busy to bother myself with the whole driving from place to place thing. Really. I’d already have my entry done for the day if I could just work on it while I’m on my way to work. Preferably my chauffeur has his/her own car that is very nice, with a CD player and air conditioning. Oh, and I get to control the CD’s.
I need a physical trainer. Someone who can make sure I’ve got two hours cleared a day where I work out. Someone who can motivate me and make me laugh and make the two hours go by so quickly, that at the end we’re just laughing with our arms around each other, wiping some sweat off each other’s foreheads, and then maybe licking some of the sweat that’s gathered around each other’s earlobes. We start teasing each other by flinging some water from our Evian bottles at each other, and that quickly mounts into a full-on water fight, and we stand dripping, with our clothes just a bit transparent from the workout, and then we begin to wrestle. Soon we’re just making out on the pilates machine, and that escalates to full-on humping in the steam room.
It’s my trainer. I can do with him what I want. Or her. It doesn’t matter, I don’t have one.
I need someone who really really likes going into other people’s houses and cleaning them. I need someone who likes finding new apartments in new cities for people and packing all of their stuff (donating things they don’t need anymore to Goodwill) and then moving their belongings to their new home, getting their cats in safe and sound and then wishing them well in their new lives.
I need a doctor. Someone who can take a good look at me and prescribe things immediately, and can prevent illnesses before they come on.
I need someone who can give a bad-ass manicure and pedicure.
I need an assistant. Someone who can be a living Palm Pilot. Every day at three he or she walks in, opens my mouth, pops my pill in and then makes me swallow water. He or she must look an awful lot like me so he or she can go to dreadfully boring meetings, stand in lines, and get pictures taken for me. He or she also remembers to buy things on people’s birthdays. (Happy Birthday, Charlotte!)
I need a barista. My own personal Starbucks coffee jerk that can make the perfect mocha latte. Not too hot, and in a really cool mug so I look important while I work on my computer and scrunch my eyes up when i’m thinking something really deep. My barista tells me the important events of the day while my coffee is preparing, and sometimes we get into arguments about Eminem and Carson Daly.
I need a pilot. Someone with their own plane who loves to fly and wants to just take me wherever I want to go. I have the ability to leave a city at a moment’s notice and arrive in a different city for the weekend, or maybe just the evening. I’m too busy to worry about booking flights, or preparing hotel accommodations. My assistant speaks with my pilot and the two of them just make sure I’m where I need to be at the right time. They are indespensible, and I love them. I’ve written them into my will, and my children vacation with my pilot’s children on Spring Break. They are such dolls, really. You’d love them. You’ll have to meet them next time we holiday in Aspen. You are going to be there, aren’t you? Of course, darling. We wouldn’t miss your dinner for the world.
I need a courier. Someone who can deliver and pick up at a moment’s notice. My courier also writes out all of my bills, since he’s got nothing better to do right now anyway. My courier is from Spain, and is madly in love with me. He leaves rose petals in my toilet bowl.
I need a film director. Someone who wants to make movies and wants nothing more than for me to be in them. Someone who writes incredibly well, or just wants to use my writing and then we make crazy films together that are successful, but not too successful and then I end up on Inside the Actor’s Studio and when James Lipton asks what my favorite curse word is I’d tell him, “James Lipton Ass-Sucker.”
But until then, I’ll just stick with the friends I have. They do make me laugh. And that’s important. And they call, and they care, and they worry about me. That’s all my mother ever wanted in my friends.