Maybe the Moon

1
    T HE DIARY WAS R ENEE’S IDEA . S HE RAN ACROSS THIS NOTEBOOK at Walgreens last week and decided on the spot that it was time for me to start writing things down. Just so you’ll know, it’s a Mr. Woods notebook, the spiral kind, with a green cardboard cover and the little bastard himself gazing wistfully from his hole in the tree trunk. Renee took this as a major omen. That evening over dinner she made such a solemn ceremony out of giving it to me that I felt like Moses on Mount Sinai. Since then, so help me, she hasn’t stopped peeping at me sideways, watching my every move, waiting breathlessly for the muse to strike.
    I probably shouldn’t start until my period is over, just to keep the pissing and moaning to a minimum, but Renee says that’s exactly the time I should be writing. Some journal expert she saw on Oprah says all the important stuff happens while you’re feeling like a piece of shit; you just don’t realize it until later. I’ve got my doubts—serious ones—but I’m willing to risk it if you are.
    At the moment, Renee is pretending to be engrossed in America’s Most Wanted . Though she’s all the way across the room, curled up on the sofa like some huge Himalayan kitten, I can almost feel her breath on my neck as I set pen to paper. The pressure is enormous, but I’ll try to muddle through, since it seems to mean so much to her.
    Who knows? Maybe she’s right. Maybe there is a movie in my life. Maybe some brilliant young writer/director will discover these pages someday and see the perfect little film he or she has always wanted to make. And when that happens, who else but me could possibly play me? (After I’ve lost a few pounds, that is, and had my teeth capped.) Cadence Roth would join the ranks of Sophia Loren, Ann Jillian, Shirley MacLaine, and a handful of other actresses who’ve had the honor of portraying themselves on-screen. And due to the “special nature” of the material, the Academy would fall all over itself at Oscar time. I’d be a natural for talk shows too, and it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine a sitcom spun off from the movie.
    Of course, the real reason Renee is pushing this is because she knows she’ll be part of the story. Yesterday, when we were sorting the laundry, she told me in all earnestness that Melanie Griffith would be her number one choice to play her in the movie. That’s not as farfetched as you might think, actually. Renee’s a little broader in the beam than Melanie, and her features are less delicate, but the general effect of soft, pink, babyfied sweetness is pretty much the same. (If you’re reading this, Renee, that’ll teach you to snoop.) At any rate, we’d have our pick of voluptuous blonde co-stars if we came up with the right script and director. That’s a big if, I know, but it never hurts to have a dream or two in the pipeline.
    We could sure use the cash. My last job was in November, four whole months ago, a half-hour infomercial in which I played—say it ain’t so, Cady—a jar of anticellulite cream. I have yet to see this epic aired. My guess is that the FDA finally caught up with the sleazebag from Oxnard who was fronting the operation and nailed him with a cease and desist. It’s just as well. Poor Renee, the last of the true believers, glopped the stuff on her thighs for three weeks and got nothing for her troubles but a nasty rash.
    Renee, I should mention, brings home a modest paycheckfrom her job at The Fabric Barn, and that’s keeping us both in cornflakes at the moment. There’s no rent or even a mortgage, thank God, since I bought this house outright ten years ago with the pittance I made from Mr. Woods . Still, we’re feeling the pinch in this recession. While the wolf may not be at the door, he’s at least casing the neighborhood. Long gone are the days when Renee and I would treat ourselves to pedicures and pore cleansings at Hair Apparent, then tool into Hollywood for a night on the town.
    Frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little trapped. Since I don’t drive, I’m fairly housebound while Renee’s at work, unless somebody else swings by on the way to God-knows-where. That’s the problem with the Valley: it isn’t near anything. I moved here when I was barely twenty, largely at the insistence of my mom, who got it into her thick Jewish skull that Studio City would be much safer than, say, West Hollywood—my personal choice. We lived here for seven years, Mom and me, right up to the