Girlfriends

I love, "The Girls Next Door," and I think I've finally figured out why and I'll tell you in a minute. First off, for those of you not in The Know, "The Girls Next Door," is a reality-type documentary show about Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends and their mundane, day-to-day adventures living together at The Mansion. One man, three women, scantily clad, all getting along and enjoying life's simple pleasures. Sort of like "Big Love" meets "Show Girls" meets "Little House on the Prairie." Pure programming bliss. I cannot for the life of me continue the business of channel surfing when I chance upon this rich nugget of cable viewing heaven, I must stop and gawk. I may be deeply opposed to rubber necking on the freeway, but for this I have to slow down and stare and I think I know why. It's because they're so friggin' nice to each other. And their boobies are so gosh darn big.

Seriously, think about it. Three totally unsophisticated, looks-obsessed, uneducated girlfriends with no future earnings potential sharing one rich, vaguely attentive workaholic boyfriend. They should be at each other's throats, right? Pick me, pick me! Kicking, scratching and swearing up a storm. Well, they're not. Or if they are, the network will never let on. It's all peach pie and picnics for us. Any eyeball scratching cat fights have been left on the cutting room floor. (A phrase, by the way, that is now so antiquated that I'm dating myself. Again.)

And the boobies? So big. I look at them and marvel the way I look at certain secretary's incredibly long and winding 2-inch-plus fingernails and think,

1. How do you diaper your children?
2. How do you re thread the broken shoulder straps on their back-packs?
3. Pick gunk out of their eyes?

And with boobies I think,

1. How do you see the bottom row of keys on your computer?
2. How do you get your back tan?
3. Scratch your elbow?

I mean, their bellybuttons must be caked with years of hardened lint sediment in tiny little layers because they can't get in there. Or can they? I know! They can clean each other's belly buttons! And that, my friends is the genius of their living arrangement. Holly (The Mom), Bridget (The Girlscout) and Kendra (The Sullen, Slightly-Spoiled, Permanently-Hungover, Tomboy Troublemaker) live together like super-sweet co-eds in their own private sorority. Hef does little more than shuffle around, take naps and order soup.

In fact, Hef's whole mystique can be summed up by the fact that Holly's endearing nick name for him is "Puffin." Not "Tiger" or "Wild Man" or "Hercules." Just a silly little unobtrusive bird. Eagle, hawk and raven wouldn't have worked either, but Puffin fits him like a glove. Sure, occasionally we see them in his 1970s goth bedroom all sitting together on those cheesy, slippery crimson sheets, on that ridiculous custom made emperor-sized bed, but they're usually watching TV or eating ice cream. It's less like the west coast epi-center of adult hedonism and more like sleep-away camp.

In fact, I'm guessing there's far more debauchery going on at sleep-away camps all over the greater US than there is in Hef's bedroom. And not for lack of trying. Those girls have been bit by the sexy bug and you just know that on the myriad vacations they take without him there is some serious dirty dancing going on between the three of them. But we don't usually get to see that. We see golf cart hi-jinx, doggie grooming excursions and endless theme party planning. Plus their incredibly thoughtful and caring friendship, wanton giggling and mutual respect. Its bizarre.

And thank goodness they have each other. Those parties look dreadful. We don't get to see various young stud A-List movie stars mauling nineteen year old playmates from Arkansas. No, no, we see our three girls, their assortment of playpals, a sibling or two, sometimes a mom, Hef and his eighty year old brother and their ninety year old friends standing around under flourescent lights. It just looks so dismal I can't tell you. The only guest with any chutzpah, besides the effervescent Kendra, is Mary, Hef's executive assistant of 140 years. She a real piece of work, drinkin' and swearin' like a sailor, totally unimpressed by the whole circus sideshow. She just keeps plugging along, filing things away in shoe boxes and old metal filing cabinets, tucking missives into her brassier I imagine. As long as she gets a scotch and an occasional hand of poker she's happy. Of the whole lot, she's the one I would want to be stuck in an elevator with. Oh, the boring, redundant stories she could tell.

So, I recommend, "The Girls Next Door." No back-biting, no-infighting, not a single cross word between them. Just a trio of best friends havin' some good, clean fun. And lots of ginormous boobies. Truly a marvel to see.

Perspective

Under the title, "Things Could Be Worse," in my life's card catalogue, I came across a piece in The Times about how albinos in Tanzania are being hunted for their bones, skin and hair. Apparently witch doctors in the Congo are suggesting that the use of certain albino body parts in potions and weaving their hair into fishing nets will bring great wealth. As if the inevitability of dying the slow death of skin cancer and being tormented as local pariahs weren't bad enough.

I thought of cutting out the picture of the weary, destitute albino man and putting it up on my fridge, but didn't want to add insult to injury. It seemed disrespectful to use someone else's personal calamity as a barometer for my own whining. How would I feel if there was a yacht somewhere on the Cote D'Azur where some socialite in a wide brimmed hat put my picture on the door of her walk in shoe closet, just to remind her that things could be worse. She should count her lucky stars because after all, she could be living in a three bedroom house in a small, suburban community surrounded by neighbors who actually cook their own food and drive their own cars. The horror.

I would get wind of this and, understandably steamed, would ride up to her yacht on a small rented dinghy and demand to come aboard in my bucket hat and Crocs. She would wave a Harry Winstoned hand at her manservant, Ernesto, in an attempt to have me shoo'd away, but I would persist. "Take my photo off your door, lady. I don't want to be some symbol of a less-than life for you, I like my life, in fact, I love my life."
She would cooly counter, "Then why do you need that photo of the albino man on your refrigerator door?"
"How did you-"
She continues, "If you are truly contented, why do you need comparison to remind you of your happiness?"

I'm stumped. I slouch onto the white suede sectional couch and look out over the glittering bay towards the salmon pink horizon. I can taste the salt in the air and feel my hair starting to curl. Ernesto hands me a glass of champagne. I thank him and think to myself, "What would Ghandhi say?"

I just saw Ghandhi on Netflix. He always had just the right comeback, very clever banter, that Gandhi fellow. He could have moonlighted as a TV talk show writer, although I'm sure his textile venture was very prosperous, being Gandhi and all. I can just hear the radio ad crackling on the ashram porch, "Now you, too, can wear the shirt right off of Gandhi's back! Be the most enlightened of all your friends in a shirt personally spun by the leader of the revolution and savior of our nation! An assortment of colors in all sizes. Visit our showroom in Calcutta today. Call ahead as we may be closed due to bloodshed." Seriously, WWGD?

Ernesto returned with a tray of sushi and I returned to the matter at hand.
"So what you're saying is, I shouldn't need anything to remind me of my gurtitude." I was getting a little tipsy.
"Precisely," she replied, blotting a monogrammed silk linen napkin to her moist lips.
I asked, "Then why do you have my photo tacked to your walk-in-shoe-closet-to-the-stars sliding pocket door?"
"To remind me of your happiness."
I was a little confused. I reached for a spider roll and asked, "You think I'm happy?"
"I know you're happy. Even when you don't."
I chewed. I swallowed. I thought of Gandhi.
I asked her, "Does that mean the Albino man is happy?"
She responded, "He may or may not be. You have no way of knowing. The only thing you can be sure of is how you feel."
"But those poor people!"
"Who, the ones in Tanzania or suburban New Jersey?"
I eyed her suspiciously then something hit me. I leaned forward excitedly and sloshed a little bit of champagne on her turquoise and lime green rug, "Do you know my shrink? Were you sent here by my therapist?"
She said, "You came to me."

And with that, she finished her Perrier, got up, said goodnight and sauntered out of the room. Boy she was one tough customer. And such a nice manicure. How does she get her hair so shiny? Now I was drunk.

I never took philosophy in school and I wasn't on the debate team. But I knew enough to know that she had the upper hand and that there was a lesson in there somewhere. Although the waters had been calm I felt nauseous and desperately wanted an aspirin. Before I had even finished the thought, Ernesto was there, by my side, with 500 milligrams in his perfectly opened palm. His skin was so beautiful. I wanted to hug him. Or maybe I wanted him to hug me. I definitely needed to go home.

I chose not to put the albino man on my fridge. I think of him every night, though, and I say a little prayer, as if it would do any good, for him and the women and children who are being hunted. I imagine him thinking always, always, within each moment, each second of his waking life, "What's going to happen next? What's to become of me?" But, then I'm reminded that I don't know what he or any of the other albinos are thinking. I couldn't begin to imagine and it's wrong to even try.

Sometimes I drift off to sleep thinking about the fancy lady, Gandhi, Ernesto and the albinos of Tanzania all having a relaxing picnic together under a big, shady oak tree. And sometimes I just wonder, over and over, "What's going to happen next? What's to become of me? I'm happy, aren't I?"