I was going to a wedding on Sunday, so my friend Andy insisted on  straightening  my hair for the occasion. It’s the first time I’ve ever had my hair flat-ironed.

It’s so silky and it looks so much longer! But I can’t afford to do this on a regular basis and I wonder why we all want the kind of hair we don’t have. It’s probably the same  reason  we all want a body shape that doesn’t come naturally either.

I’ve been going around feeling superior to everyone without long straight hair. Tomorrow after I wash it, I’ll turn back into a  pumpkin.

If anyone lives in L.A. and you want good hair, Let me know and I’ll hook you up with Andy, whose  Salon  is in Santa Monica.

As for the  wedding, It was the most glorious and romantic occasion you could ask for! The bride and groom are both in their forties and had nearly given up on finding someone to love. But when they   met, it was clear to all that they were soulmates at the deepest level. The bride was breathtaking in her satin gown and swirling veil and I did her red lipstick. Their love is like an orchid blooming in a wasteland. It proves that good things still happen.

I’m grateful for the miracle of love and flat-irons.

Just when I’m trying to finish writing a story I’ve been struggling with, I have to go and orchestrate another MySpace debacle. Can someone please keep track of these for me? I’m losing count. This one was triggered by some guy’s stated regard for an obscure book I love. In retrospect, I’m sure he just Googled it, but that is now beside the point. Things went from zero to sixty: WHAM! Furious messages back and forth, by midnight I had downloaded Skype, the only way he knew how to IM.

OMFG! What a great guy! Let’s call him “Bald Guy”. A witty, literate, sensitive musician with a morose outlook on like and an appreciation for my flair with the word “cunt.” And what a great voice! A deep, scratchy voice that sounded like a Beatle or some other Northerner, crossed with Eeyore. Well, you know the story, it’s always the same on MySpace, except for the details. It was a perfect affinity! We were soul mates! Hours and hours of chat logged in. No cybersex, don’t even think about it. In fact, most charmingly, he divulged a squeamishness for “anal”, whatever that may mean. As in, “Yanks seem obsessed with anal!”   Since I had never mentioned “anal” in the first place, perhaps it was some sort of warning? From now on, IT’S ONLY ANAL FOR ME, just FYI.

Anyway, back to the story: Look! He put me in his Top 8! Wow, this is even better than junior high, isn’t it?! The other 7 were music contacts. I feel like the winner on American Idol, even though I still haven’t seen a single episode. But then, things start to get weird. What could be the matter? Aren’t we still having fun with this?!?   What about our plan to meet in New York? And what’s with the creepy Norwegian girl who’s been posting messages to him with cute little faces at the end?

Finally: Long confusing disputes about disputes about disputes. My feelings are hurt! No, he insists that his feelings are hurt, not mine. When I resign from whole thing, he needs me back. He loves me! Well, duh, so I sign up again.

After a long night of back and forth Skyping, we make up, it’s all good (i.e., completely nuts). But he has replaced me in his Top 8 with the Creepy girl, whose profile states so poignantly “I am a young girl, not yet a woman” even though she is 29. She should probably get a move on it, but that’s not my problem.

I ask him to get rid of her. He can’t! “She loves his music!” Well, the rest is too gruesome. My hallowed place is now filled by a creepy chick with a questionable eye who looks like a poor man’s Paris Hilton, and they are busy exchanging wacky jpg.s of ladybugs, grapes, etc. Today she has posted on his comments a huge suggestive photo of two greasy snails locked in embrace. Is this supposed to be preferable to anal?

I don’t know. Obviously, I have blocked this Bald Guy, and feel somehow violated yet again by an idiotic MySpace interaction. All of my 157 devoted friends send me pictures of butt plugs as comments. Can someone tell me what I’ve learned from this? Would anyone like to see this girl’s profile? The one good eye is the color of an icy fjord, or so he has written. Is there anyone out there who is willing to stage an Intervention for me, next time?

61 year old fatwa-survivor Salman Rushdie parties with actress girlfriend Pia Glenn, 32.

She admits that she’s impressed by Rushdie’s Booker Prize. He, on the other hand, ———————- (complete this sentence.)

Would you wear this weasel fur jacket by Lanvin?   How about if it costs $13,000?   Is Alber Elbaz having a little joke with himself?   How many weasels were involved, do you think?

I’m sure I’m a despicable hypocrite for loving fur, and drawing the line at weasels. But there you go. Fox, yes. Weasel, no.

This Miu Miu jacket is a better buy at $1,800 (pre-order at Matches.com) and it would look nice with my new cane. Let’s not call it a cane, though. It’s a ‘walking stick!’   I don’t think the birds have to die to make marabou jackets.   Actually, the more I look at this jacket, the more I’m convinced that the birds wanted to sacrifice themselves for me and Miu Miu.

When I went googling marabou, I found these slippers.

The wonderful thing about them is the name of the website: Romance-Your-Wife.   It promises Husbands that “no intimate attire will make your wife feel more womanly” than these slippers!

I’m off to investigate the other stuff at Romance Your Wife, just in case my own husband has overlooked anything.