I love my friends. And I love them even more when they write stuff that makes me nod my head in agreement so hard it’s in jeopardy of unscrewing itself from its neck-post, propelling itself up into the stratosphere, and ricocheting off Saturn. (And here you thought I was going to say “Uranus.”) (Oh, you.)
Thank you, my dearest Scott, for confirming, yet again, why I adore you so very much!
A decade or so later, after some really appalling movies with Jerry Reed and an equally sordid marriage to “actor” Burt Reynolds, the former Lydia Oppenheimer, known to the world by her pseudonym, Sally Fields, takes to the stage clutching a little gold statuette.
Tears streaming down her face, she blurts out the words that ultimately kill her career and will be repeated with ridicule over and over again.
“You like me! You really, really like me!”
And for those 20 seconds that seem to stretch into an eternity before the house orchestra begins to play her offstage, she really, really believes it.
Lydia needs to spend half a day at Mrs. Z’s house. When it’s time for her to go back home, she will go bouncing back to her own house feeling ecstatic for the rest of her life. Isn’t that right, Jodi?!?!?
Hmm. Lydia intrigues me. I wonder what she feels she is missing.
I’d like to tell Lydia it’s all going to be all right, but she’s not that gullible, is she?