Merry at the Marriott

Palm Springs is for desert foxes, golfers and gay bikers. Not for this mamasita. Especially when holed up at the JW Marriott in 108 degrees without a mojito or an air conditioned suite to escape to. Yes, the enire "city" (collections of resorts, a Ralphs and a Starbucks) was without electricity during half of our stay, which is a REALLY LONG TIME. Complete claustrophobia. Nothing like being stuck in the desert without espresso. And sparkling water. And an A/C. Other hotel guests (said desert foxes) seemed unfaced, concerned as they were showing off their perfectly sculpted and starved bodies in the "drunks pool" and at the bar, where you could still get a Corona---only if you showed ID when looking under the age of 38! Unreal. Strict Marriott policy, which is idiotic because the day before they did not care and did not ask for IDs, so they are being inconsistent motherfuckers. And may I add "inconsiderate," being that it's feckin 100 plus in the shade and my toenails are curling themselves to a crispy frie.

Fat Truffle Head Mother$%^#@

Haven't felt like writing since that fracas with the fat French chocolate truffle. So now I'll write about it anyway. I saunter into the building high on latte and he says: You 'aven't had much time for yoga lately, 'ave you? I, haplessly, respond: No, I haven't. Been too busy. He: Yes, I can tell, you 'ave gained much weight. At which point I get in the fucker's face and do something other people do to me and I have vowed not to do to other people, and I say: Maybe in YOUR country it's OK to comment on people's weight. Well, let me tell you something. In THIS country it is not. Especially not to women. It is rude, insensitive and tactless. I'm not calling you a fat fuck, am I? No. So there. Now get out of my face and not another peep. Jamais! Compris?

Feckin People

When I visited my old office yesterday, François, the big fat short door man from a French-speaking African country I don't remember, who used to always fawn and almost faint over my beauté, says as a greeting: 'Wow, you 'ave gotten big! 'ow much you gained? 'ow much you now weigh?' And to emphasize this, he motions with his plump short arms, as though he were holding an enormous beach ball. I say: Salut, François. Comment ça va? And then, je regrette, I don't know how to say "in this country we don't comment to people's face about their weight gain, especially to women. It's extremely rude." I couldn't even think of the French for rude. Anyway, these things happen to me all the time and when I tell people they don't believe me. But it's the truth, alas.