Free But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn Page B

quickly, I peppered her with the kind of regular old lifestyle questions that I, and all of my friends, were curious about: What was the last movie you rented? (At the time, it was Ice Cube’s Last Friday because it was her husband’s, Guy’s, turn to pick.) Do you ever cook at home? No, but she helped out Guy by adding “accessories” to the salad.
    â€œAccessories?” I said. “What, like a belt and gloves?” Look—she’s laughing!
    We moved on to her pregnancy. She said mournfully that her doctor informed her that she couldn’t exercise, and she couldn’t go out or wear cool clothes or go dancing and she just felt like “a domesticated cow.” I nodded sympathetically, pretending I was her girlfriend and she was confiding in me, like she did with Sandra Bernhard in Truth or Dare, when she was saying that there was no one left to meet because she had met everybody.
    I leaned forward and asked her something that I had always wondered about: Did she ever feel insecure? She rarely exposed any sort of vulnerability. “I feel insecure every five minutes,” she shot back. “What are you talking about?” She said that being as pregnant as she was, she panicked when she looked in the mirror.
    I pressed her, because I wanted to know how she felt when she wasn’t pregnant. Say she came across a picture of a boyfriend’s ex. Does she make mean comments? She said that there was a whole process that happens. “First I go, ‘Oh, she’s skinny and pretty.’” She grinned. “Then I think, ‘Oh, but I’m me .’”
    God love her! There was a soft knock at the door. The publicist. I remembered that there was something else I was supposed to do. My friend Susan, a fashion marketer, wanted me to inventory Madonna’s bathroom and report back. I couldn’t let her down. Plus, I wanted to know what was in there, too. I scanned her office. No bathroom. It must be right outside.
    A knock, again. I took my leave. “Thank-you-so-much,” I said, swiftly gathering my things and returning Madonna’s firm handshake. Keep it brief. Don’t smile, don’t babble. And no pictures or autographs—as a professional courtesy, you’re never supposed to ask. You want to at least fake that you’re contemporaries.
    â€œMay I use the facilities?” I asked the assistant, pointing to the door near the star’s office that said “WC.” I raced in and started running the water, while taking inventory of the bathroom. A bottle of Fracas perfume, I scribbled down. Some sort of face spray that you get at the health food store, water with a geranium scent by Tree of Life. Bathroom reading? The Hypochondriac’s Handbook. Hmm. Interesting. La Mer face lotion. Done, done, and done.
    The assistant awaited to walk me to reception. I strode through the halls, triumphant. “How was she? Isn’t she amazing?” she said.
    â€œHow was she?” said the receptionist. “Totally great, right?”
    â€œShe was,” I said, trying and failing not to sound like a deranged fan. “She was funny, but she had a softer side, too. And she never gave canned answers, she really thought about things.” Then my knees started to buckle. “Can I sit for a second?” I said. “I feel a little faint.”
    The receptionist nodded. “That happens sometimes,” he said. “I think I’m going to get some smelling salts and put them behind the desk.”
    As I stumbled to the car, the cycle was complete. It always ended with me in a victory march, thinking, I have the world’s best job. This euphoria lasted precisely as long as it took to write the story. And it was alarming to know that the Calms worked perfectly well on most stars, but not the triple-A list.
    The driver eyed me in the rearview mirror. “You want to take monan, or fleen?” he said.
    I pretended to