Lunch with my husband sucks. I plop myself down at Chin Chin, surrounded by stock brokers who are too young not successful enough to eat somewhere else, and I’m cozy as can be until my darling husband says, “Pink shirt, twelve o’clock Regis Philbin.”
But then his wife Joy moves a little to get out of the sun. All of a sudden I’ve got the iPhone out and I’m snapping pictures like crazee. Why? I don’t want to be Regis. I don’t want to be on his show. I’d look like a dancing baby hippopotamus next to Kelly “feed me” Rippa. What I would like is a sit down with Joy.
Her hair is perfect, her makeup is subtle, her nails are done without that icky look where they look done, she’s wearing heels that are tasteful but sexy. Joy is the woman I’ll never be.
Joy has a diamond the size of my eyeball and signs her bill with an 18 carat gold Cartier pasha pen (okay, something we have in common, only mine leaks). Joy wears a watch, I’m always late and never know it because the battery life of an iphone is short, to be kind.
In any event, I couldn’t eat. I just stared, like a dumb ass tourist.
Oh Mel, he does pop his collar…