Among Frenemies

Originally posted October 1, 2010

Dear Madonna,

You are 52 years old. (The truth hurts, I know.) I also know you have done everything in your power to look somewhere in your late thirties for at least the last 15 years. For this, I commend you. But I also blame you for wasting my time. You see, I spend inordinate amounts of my waking hours wondering just how much money all that upkeep costs.

No, really. I am seriously curious. Because you see, if I were really rich, I’d do exactly what you do. I’d date really young guys; I’d pal around with my adolescent daughter and that naughty Taylor Momsen; and I’d spend every waking hour when I wasn’t studying Kabbalah or making epic period movies either at the gym or having some revolutionary beauty treatment—oxygen infusions, photo facials, collagen boosters, cranial massages, whatever it took to make me look oddly 18 and 38 at the same time.

I only bring up your “real age” (did I say it? You’re 52!!) because today the world got a load of what you look like without retouching, and by the sound of the roar over on the Internet, your young-enough-to-be-your-son boyfriend, your Tracey Anderson–toned body and your aforementioned cosmetically plumped up face had all apparently been fooling people into thinking you’d inked an actual deal with El Diablo.

Why are people so surprised that your boobs are not as full as the ones in the ads? Or that your nose is not quite that straight? That your calves are actually more muscular than the ones Dolce and Gabbana are using to sell their line of Sicilian housewife clothing?

Come on! There is only so much an unlimited budget and the apparent willpower of 30 humans can reasonably accomplish. But now I find myself—head in a bag of Mallomars—questioning my more humble efforts at anti-aging. Why did I get up at 6:30 this morning to do yoga? Why do I bother to see an “age-management specialist” for my facials? Why do I ever change out of my Free City sweats? Why, oh why, oh why?

Whichever bitchy studio assistant over at Steven Klein’s leaked those unretouched horror shots of you should be fired—like, with-a-firing-squad kind of fired. Not because he showed the world you are merely a shadow of your MILF-y self with some seriously veiny and old-looking hands but because he blew the whole charade for the rest of us.

So, anywho, Madge, if you want to come over tonight to hang out—just us old gals—I still have my VHS copy of Desperately Seeking Susan. We can watch it and remember what life was like before the goddamned Internet ruined everything.

Love,
Your frenemy Cat

  

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To Die For

Originally posted May 10, 2010

Last week my friend Ron (holla, Fink!) sent me a link to an article on Jalopnik. At first glance, I thought, Oh, it’s just a guy on a bike. On closer examination, I thought maybe it was a wax figure, but once I read the accompanying article, I discovered that David Morales Colón, who was gunned down at the tender age of 22 in San Juan, Puerto Rico, was in fact, dead. Muerte.

His relatives eschewed the traditional open casket, the humble cremation urn and the dignified gold-plated casket (in the style of Michael Jackson) in favor of a more—or less…I can’t decide—morbid display. I mean, who’s to say that it’s less unsettling to see someone lying in a casket mimicking slumber than it is to see that same person straddling his beloved Honda CBR600 F4?

This dip into the uncharted waters of death really got me thinking. How would I want to be arranged for my wake if I chose to go a similar route? To get myself past the pearly gates, would I ask to be dressed in my favorite tennis skort and positioned on the baseline about to serve up an ace? Or would I prefer for them to dress me in that superfancy Dior I haven’t been able to wear during my time on Earth?

The dress has always felt just a little too over the top, so I always just hang it back in the closet, waiting for the perfect moment. This could finally be the right occasion for that little number. I mean, really—what bigger party could I be attending than the one welcoming me into heaven?

After ruminating for a few days on my own sartorial choices for the afterlife, I began to imagine the possibilities for a diverse selection of others who will all assuredly be deceased someday.

An exotic dancer or S Factor home enthusiast could be arranged upside-down and spread-eagle on the pole that was so close to her heart. Lady GaGa, Beyoncé and Madonna, should they die in this century’s version of the plane crash that killed Richie Valens, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper, could be strategically placed on an enormous light-up stage—all three pantsless, of course.

Derek Jeter could be dressed in pinstripes, natch, and suspended mid-leap in a Red Sox–defying snag on a mock infield of Astroturf. Steven Tyler could be in skintight leather pants, shirtless, at a mike stand draped in scarves. I could go on, but then you’d think I was really weird.

I get that this is a slightly morbid line of thinking with which to occupy my idle-time thoughts, but it so appeals to my plan-ahead nature. I like to map out all the possibilities (and by that I mean outfits) for each and every situation. And thanks to the creativity of Colón’s relatives, I now see my wake as the last party for which I’ll ever have to dress up. It’d better be a doozy of an outfit.