When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Just flew in from the coast. Always wanted to say that as if I had breakfast at the Four Seasons and midnight show at Whiskey-a -Go-Go. Actually, I did have breakfast at the Four Seasons. $24 yogurt and berries. Smoke and mirrors, Tesla Ubers. Pinkberry. The boulevard of broken dreams. I will die trying to make it in this town. I decided that I get to pick the windmills I tilt at. I got booted out of film school at NYU and my dream is to accept my Academy Award and say, thank you NYU for giving me the boot in 1978. Thanks publishing for 35 years of work with writers and books. Thank you Marc Lapadula and my small group at Yale. Thank you to my parents (look up to heaven). Thank you to my beautiful husband and daughter. My family and friends, Charles Manson. Brad Pitt and Plan B. The cast and crew. HBO thank you for believing in us and giving us total creative control.
Who do you have to thank?
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Betsy Lerner 
oh, fuck. god knows.
Oh, Betsy. My life was like Augusten Burroughs life, and you don’t have time to hear about it all (I adore him!). But, I will say that only a few people had faith in me growing up. The amazing thing: I have myself to thank for achieving every dream I set out to accomplish, and although I self-published on Kindle, I still have the dream of actually publishing a hardback book. I love still having one thing left to do before passing to the other side.
“Who do you have to thank?”
Alphabetically or chronologically? Oh, heck, I’ll just wing it.
Me mum, for teaching me to love story and how to tell time. Me mum and pop both, for being there when expected and needed, and for tyrannizing and beating the crap out of me sufficiently so as to render me of satisfactory subservience to survive in this civilized world. To various teachers, too many to name in detail, though I would like to give a shout-out to Mrs. Wilder, David, Christie, and Gordon. To all the women who have loved me, or something like love, several of whom remain among my friends (seriously, I could not be more grateful). To Susan, for saving my life. And, as always, to you, Betsy.
Who do you have to thank?
Adult-Ed teacher Greg Stone who, (when I was VERY pregnant with my first child), reached across a row of desks to pluck me from an obscure classroom of ‘maybes’ and elevate me from dreamer to published.
Greg was the deputy op-ed editor of a local newspaper and taught college level writing. That class in ’87 was crucial in helping me to recognize that I had what it took to not only be a writer but a published writer.
Hundreds of articles, op-eds, essays and columns later he taught my daughter (the baby in my belly) when she was in college.
When he found out who her mother was, he said to her and the entire class…
“Your mom is a hell of writer.” My daughter was proud of me. That was my shining moment. Thanks Greg.
Tom Brady and Giselle Bundchen, Ryan Reynolds and Chris Rock, Bob, Neil, Joni and those guys, all my wonderful famous friends and, of course, George Santos for showing that if you take the time to look, what you see is not always what you get.
($5 will get you 10 there will be at least one Santos joke at the Oscars. An extra $10 says it comes before the Best Supporting Actress award.).
No one as famous as you. First, my son. Second, in a tie, my son’s father and stepfather, both dead, who each inspired a novel. I’m working on both right now simultaneously, alternating morning, afternoon, morning, etc. Some of the most fun I’ve ever had, besides sex, which, considering the last 12 years of single widowhood is a very good thing!