I haven’t written about my glamorous pal lately, because I haven’t seen her, not since becoming besotted with a Cuban named Edmundo.
It’s a pity when women get involved with a man, how they abandon everything else, like a heroin habit you just can’t kick.
I called to wish her a Happy Birthday, even though she prefers ignoring the day.
“I’m a relic,” she says, “a museum piece right outta Pompeii.”
“Don’t exaggerate Camille, you look amazing for your age and you know it.”
“Well it cost me enough.”
“You always tell me, we should be like French women and not care about age, wrinkles or waistlines.”
“I must’a been drunk when I said that.”
“I mean really, what’s the point in worrying about something one has no control over? We can’t stop the clock, doesn’t matter how much Botox we get.”
“Did you finally invest in that sinking chin of yours you hold up with your forefingers?”
“No, I did not. I’m just not a botulism kinda gal I guess. I know I’m not the prettiest girl in the room anymore and can happily say, I’ve made peace with it.”
“Oh yeah, right. That’s why you’ve been known to carry a flask in your Kate Spade mailbag.”
“Once, on a very cold night, I filled one with brandy. That doesn’t make me a Saint Bernard ya know.”
“Well, I’m wearing black and draping crepe on all the mirrors.”
“You mean like when Lincoln died?”
“Am I in for one of your boring history lessons?”
“Camille, I just called to say, you’re beautiful, bright, funny and when Ricky Ricardo ceases to run your life, I’ll look forward to seeing you…have a Happy Birthday my friend.”