I wish I had her television life, living in a modest yet fabulous one-dimensional apartment in New York City, making breakfast and dinner for my husband and a toddler son/drum virtuoso who shares the husband’s name, a pal who gossips with me in the kitchen every morning, rollers in our hair, my only care in the world an overactive imagination fueled by jealousy and a spouse who doesn’t take me seriously. But above all, I’ve always wanted to give John Wayne a rub down.
In case anyone from back home thinks I’m real cool, I’d like to disabuse them of the notion. Fact: I did not wake up early this morning to go to the gym, and then do yoga in my spare bedroom, as half-heartedly planned. I did wake up an hour late, and as first thing on the morning’s docket Google “Joan London” while sitting on the toilet. Note: Her name is spelled “Joan Lunden.” Now we know. (And she’s still alive, which is the thing I wanted to know at six AM.) I am wearing a Turbie Twist on my head, and it is pink. And I did slip in my dog’s pooled drool while making myself a refried bean burrito for breakfast.