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To marry a poor man, all you need is a fifth of Mescal
and gas to Vegas. To marry rich in L.A. however…
Heed me, my sisters – you need a plan.
Back in Mom & friends’ moneyed MILF heyday,
some hot, Swedish imports blew onto their scene, staking
claims in the Beverly Hills Wife Club. They seemed to
appear out of nowhere, but ah, ‘twas not the case.
Legend goes that an entrepreneurial older woman (I’d
cast Charlotte Rampling) handpicked the perky cupcakes
back in Sverige. She perfected their English, dressed
them, taught them the arcane ‘which fork’
etiquette that B.H. mistakes for class.
When the bait was prepped (and here lies the brilliance)
Madam dangled her herrings in all the right ponds. Lunch,
dinner, cocktails at Rich Man haunts, golf/tennis lessons
at country clubs, etc.
‘Etc.’ including, I’d wager, scads
of unspeakable acts, and how to think of the Queen when
grossly disgusted.
It wasn’t long before the bait was snapped up.
Nouveau Riche men love nothing more than a natural blonde
(carpet matches drapes). Madam was paid, discreetly,
a large, pre-arranged fee.
(Wait. Time out. Think about this: ‘Extreme Makeover
– The Real Thing’. Would that be a, like,
dope reality show or what? Producers, contact me.)
I was recently buoyed by an ad for a seminar given
by Lisa Johnson, auteur of the codex, ‘How To
Snare A Millionaire.’ Who says our country has
eschewed the middle class? Golddigging has come to the
people!
“Erase the word ‘golddigging’ from
your mind!” simply bubbles Ms. Johnson. Fast-forward
to said seminar with my butt in a chair. “Women
are hard-wired to mate with the alpha male. Biology
is destiny.”
Yeah? Then wouldn’t it follow that the ‘alpha
male’ would choose the youngest, most fertile,
most beautiful female, knocking all of the broads here
right out of the ring?
“I feel its my right as a woman to be well taken
care of” snorts a tan, one-process redhead with
dye on her scalp who, at fifty-some, has the face she
deserves.
“Absolutely!” says Lisa. “I mean,
all power to any woman who can get rich on her own,
you know? But me…” she shrugs, “I’m
artistic.”
We are gathered, to succor destiny, at the LAX (Airport)
Holiday Inn, a ghastly place. A jog to the runways,
on a sleazy boulevard, you can feel rats in the walls
without being psychic. Packs of rap-clad young men clogged
the entrance and lobby, perhaps looking for women to
beat.
‘The Rich Have To Marry — Why Not You?’
took place in a ‘meeting’ room suitable
for double use as a snuff film set. It was next to the
bar, across from the men’s toilet. But none of
this disturbed the Romans, no siree.
Our group included a be-wigged Hispanic hussy who said
she was French, a phlegmy, dry-haired blonde d’un
age no spring chicken, some Regis fans from Accounts
Receivable, a scary Moroccan with implants akimbo, and
a large, tattooed teacher who yelled ‘Yippee!’
at Lisa’s cock-kipeing tips.
“Millionaires just love me,” Lisa peeped.
“I’ve been proposed to fifty times by millionaires.
In really elegant places — yachts, fancy restaurants.
Some of the proposals came from the same men; repeat
offenders! And saying ‘no’ after seeing
those big ol’ diamonds was not easy, believe me!”
I guess she sensed that every eye flew to her left
hand fourth finger, which was bare. She held it up.
“I’m such a romantic,” she said.
I’m just waiting for the right guy.”
I would venture to say… bull-pucky.
Until this point, I had compassion. Lisa is pleasant
looking, that’s all. She describes herself as
“no genius” and I believe her. She’s
allegedly a journalist, but I could find no evidence,
unless she writes about science in Vancouver. So she
hacked out a little niche, however smarmy, and is working
it. So what. A girl’s got to pay the bills.
But try to con me… and my core roils with thunder.
“There are a mill-ee-on single millionaires in
L.A. County, ladies,” Lisa’s words squiggled
forth. “Your chances are good.”
Out where? The lobby? Hades? The Andromeda Strain?
As for their ‘chances’… If a mill-ee-on
millionaires were trapped in this very room horny and
starving – and if these women were naked with
food on their loins… I’d say their chances
still weren’t good.
“One of the best things you can do, girls, is
learn to play golf. Millionaires love to play golf.
You should start hitting balls at a driving range. One
of the best is at Rancho Park.”
“Wrong!” I clacked out, snide. “Rich
men in L.A. don’t go to public parks. They belong
to country clubs, and use the range there.”
Lisa was flustered. “Well, yes, but… sometimes
on their way home from work…”
“Never.” Okay, I was somewhat obnoxious.
All of the lazy, wormy, lifeless, blank faces turned
my way with a pout.
“And what do you mean by ‘millionaire’?”
I blurted, indelicate. “That’s such a quaint
term. Do you include guys who just have a mil on paper,
or a million cash? If a guy has a million cash and lives
off the interest, we are not talking yachts here, girls,
or even Frexinet. Let’s say his money’s
in a thirty-year t-bill. He’ll only gross about
fifty-five thou. After taxes – thirty-five? No
health insurance. Hardly enough for himself around here,
much less a family!”
Actually, I didn’t say that last part. I thought
it.
I thought next of a B Actress I know who had managed
engagements to three rich, famous men. All three had
dumped her. At one stroke to midnight she wrangled a
third. Number three was in his sixties, newly divorced
from his nasty wife of forty years. B Actress became
his fantasy girl, cooking pot roast in flowing dresses
and the like. Now she’s the mother of two hellions,
trapped in convention, tied to an old, tired man she
never loved.
‘Bow down before the cash you serve, you’re
going to get what you deserve,’ as Nine Inch Nails
would say.
As for Lisa’s ‘tips,’ I couldn’t
bear to repeat them, but here are mine: Get off your
ass, learn something and shut-up. You may not marry
rich, but you just might have a nice life anyway.
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