Musings of a real housewife of Lewis County
I am getting old. I know because the other day as I was fantasizing about my affair with Jackson Browne, the one I never had but that I’ve fantasized about since I was fourteen years old, usually while I’m listening to his music, I found myself thinking strange, logical thoughts. Like I thought to myself that for this to happen first I would have to lose thirty pounds and firm up my hips, thighs and stomach, and grow my hair long and dye it blond, not platinum blond but a rich honey color. With highlights and lowlights. And I would have to start tanning, and get about 75 percent or so of my body parts waxed. I would have to get a pedicure and a manicure, but no nail polish since that’s not very green and everyone knows Jackson is very green. And I would need a new wardrobe to have this affair, since my jeans, sneakers and sweater wardrobe is completely un-Californian, although it works just fine in the Pacific Northwest where I live. But in California you have to dress well and have white teeth and soft hair and perfect breasts. You have to wear colorful maxi dresses with strappy sandals and wear tasteful expensive jewelry and like eating tofu. I hate tofu.
So as I started constructing my California wardrobe in my head, I began to realize that I would have to move to L.A. for this affair, or else settle for being a groupie that followed Jackson around and slept with him when he got lonely on the road, but of course there are scores of younger, prettier women willing to do that, and doesn’t he have a wife in L. A. somewhere anyways? That would be expensive too. And I realized that L. A. is a place I’ve never been to and I’m not sure I would like it there. I was close once driving from Seattle to San Diego, but it was rush hour and we turned east towards Pasadena to avoid the traffic. That didn’t work very well and we ended up in traffic that really did not move for about three hours, surrounded by very toney tanned business types, my niece and I in her white Pontiac sedan, with our frizzy hair and white February skin, watching all the beautiful people in BMW convertibles, and then when traffic finally moved we had to pee so bad we had to get off in Coronado and find a bathroom, which ended up being in a mall full of young people, who were not driving convertibles but who were very loud and crowded into the mall shouting and laughing to one another, excited to be young and out on a Friday night in a mall in Southern California, which for some reason was intimidating for a middle-aged woman from a rural town in Washington state, so far from being a young person on a Friday night at a mall in Southern Cal.
So the thought of moving to L.A. put me off a little. I don’t even like malls. And something in my brain suddenly connected the dots and informed me that in order for me to move to L.A. I would have to leave my husband of 37 years who is really nice to me and doesn’t mind when my gray roots grow in or I don’t shave my legs or that I had to stop whitening my teeth because of sensitivity issues. And who I love truly and completely. Or we would at least have to separate until the affair was over and then it would never be the same again and I would hate myself and he might actually hate me too and find somebody who didn’t run off and have affairs with famous people and then I would be alone. And I would miss my dog really bad too, because I couldn’t take him with me to L.A., since it would break my husband’s heart and besides that’s no place for a dog, which I know from watching the Dog Whisperer that the place is full of neurotic dogs, although Ceasar Milan seems to think the people are the problem and they probably are, so how happy are they really living in La La Land? And then I started thinking about how much I like Ceasar Milan and how he would be such a fun guy to have for a friend and how wonderful he is with dogs and if I lived in L.A. I could hang out at his doggie re-hab ranch and maybe he would teach me how to roller blade and before you know it I had forgotten all about the fantasy affair with Jackson Browne and I ate a bowl of cheerios and listened to some Bonnie Raitt and thought to myself “Wouldn’t Bonnie be an awesome friend?”