Mogul Man…

A weekend in LA with the girls proves interesting on many levels. Three days after our return it’s still not clear what may or may not be fair game for the sharing. I ask the dolls before we leave if anything need be locked in the vault. They agree the secrets are mostly mine so we’re good. The quartet that ventures to Lala land each June are the dolls in the woods the day The Norwegian died creating a connection so intimate and deep, I hesitate before spilling secrets. But, this being the blog and your inclination for knowing all our exploits, who am I to deprive you?

Bloody Marys on a nine a.m. flight paint a picture of weekend festivities to come. Each year our travel purpose is to visit Goddess Trish’s daughter. This junior goddess is one of a pair of ethereal stunners birthed by the Goddess Trish. Baby Sis is about to be married–just this morning was spent plotting flowers and table decor for the upcoming wedding. There was even some talk of moi using one of those ear thingamabobs, appearing super busy at the wedding and able to avoid direct contact with anyone I don’t want to see. Hand up, I’ll say, “Sorry, can’t talk now. Have to find the FOB” (father of the bride–for those of you not in on wedding lingo). Some days are just filled to the brim with joy, non?

But it is Goddess’ Oldest Daughter who resides in the land of film and frivolity and we venture to her hood each year. This year she is searching, with great frustration, for a new apartment within her price range. Easier said than done in a commonwealth that includes Chateau Marmont and Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. BTW, a certain Ms. Vanderpump did not meet us at SUR despite my personal invitation and witty tweets the week before our arrival.

We did however, spy Ken (sans Giggy) in our exploits. Insider news: Ken was scouting property around the corner from SUR so if I were you I’d put my money on a new Vanderpump/Todd offering in the offing. Stay tuned right? I would like to believe that should I encounter the divine Ms. Lisa, after all my tweets and such, I would be a tad nervous but charming. I get a better clue as to my behavior motoring down Sunset when River Rafter Girl calls from the back seat, “Look its Ken.” It is Ken. It is! I fly across the front seat trampling the driving Goddess screeching in my highest octave through closed windows, “Ken! Ken! Do you have Giggy?”

Goddess shakes her head. Not only not a Housewives fan but generally not a fan of passengers screaming in her ear while attempting to escape a moving vehicle tromping over the top of her body. Pfft. As for Ms. Vanderpump, probably better for her safety that we do not spy her.

No matter. Our purpose is support of Goddess Daughter, both emotionally and alcoholically. Not to star gaze. Although last year, Gene Simmons was at the table next to us at the Burbank Airport. Very tall–as different looking as you might imagine. I didn’t ask about the tongue.

Goddess Daughter works for Mogul Man, a Hollywood heavyweight equal parts adorable and powerful both in his work and apparently his personal life. He’s East Coast born and bred. But now, being a Californian and all, he finds himself swathed in young ladies lithe of body and gorgeous of face. We greet him as we pick up Goddess Daughter for lunch and, as last year’s memory serves, he is indeed a charmer.

Over lunch we discuss the blog, the book and a super secret project. A request is made to get the book here now which elicits a call to Middle Chicken to hit send and a happy dance on a Santa Monica Boulevard sidewalk, just out of view of our lunch table. The plan is to pass it on to the company’s literary arm. I know–squees abound. More squees will happen in this one afternoon than in all my adult life. The idea of getting the book into powerful hands and chatting casually with the people who will take a look, examine its’ worth and discuss its’ future, is both pee and sweat inducing. Butterflies of the tummy variety reappear as I type this five days later.

Mogul Man will meet us later for cocktails at a certain Beverly Hills martini bar known for its Vod Box and occasional celebrity sighting. It’s another yearly jaunt and our favorite guy behind the bar plies us with his amazing Nozatinis–a cucumber concoction that could make the man famous were he to bottle the elixir. We’ve already had sushi and saki so count ourselves ready for dancing, singing and the silliness reserved for ladies who’ve seen enough years we no longer give a damn what anyone may think.

Daughter Goddess is radiant and instantly surrounded by friends–a young actress, a model and a deep voiced beauty who lets us know we are simply “mahvelous.” We learn of “boobie beads” which for this girl means pearls but evidently, in other circles, is short for piercing in the nipple region. Ouch. Never occurs to those of us in the bitsy boobie set.

Mogul Man joins us with a sizzling young thing–a prima ballerina from Macedonia with a cool exterior and a rocking bod. She is sweet as syrup and a most patient girlfriend as Mogul Man’s flirting would have sent me right ’round the bend. The Norwegian knew: flirt equals death. Jealous much?

Mogul Man and I join the dancing and he lobs an indecent proposal my way. Fifty-five martinis make me suddenly clever. I tell him he’ll have to work much harder than that to be my first. In the retell next morn, the dolls and I decide perhaps we could make this work to our advantage. Goddess Daughter is searching for a new apartment and everything decent seems out of range financially. He is her boss. Perhaps I should take one for the team.

We need little encouragement to tally the things for which I could take one for the team. Of course: career, book, movie, apartment, pearls, designer shoes. Duh. We laugh–no one harder than me since the truth is–had I taken Mogul Man up on his offer the poor man would have run screaming. All that time spent with twenty somethings, one look at my stretch marks and he’d have named the deal null and void.

So, no, I don’t leap aboard the casting couch although I’m much less opposed than when I was young and believed dreams come true simply from hard work and doing the right thing. I now know everything has it’s price–mine just happens to be spilling secrets and humiliating myself and my family in order to make a living. No biggie.

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