Call Me Crazy

11/2003

I’ve done a crazy thing or two in my life.

There was Europe in ’91.

There was sleeping with Steven Spielberg twice last year. But nothing I’ve done lately compares with what I did last night. I was in line at Publix, buying catfood, ice cream and yogurt, when I spotted my friend’s future husband standing in line in front of me. Of course, he didn’t know who he was. He thought he was just some guy in line, but I knew. I knew he was StarGirl’s future husband.

So I grabbed my phone and got StarGirl on the line. I told her I was in line behind this really sporty, nice-looking guy and I thought they’d like each other. Of course, he could hear every word I was saying, and I loved seeing the mild grin grow across his handsome face. I named the grocery items he was buying so StarGirl could see that he was, indeed, her future husband. She agreed, he was likable. Then I told her a funny joke and hung up.

This is where it got tense. I was silent. He could make a move or not make a move; I’d done enough. The clock was running; he was about to pay his bill and leave Publix forever. He knew it. I knew it. The Universe knew it. Finally, he spoke. He asked if my friend was married. There must be something about the married women in Sarasota because, lately, men keep asking that question. “Of course, she’s not married,” I said, happy to know he only dates single women. He gave me his business card.

He and StarGirl exchanged a few witty emails and decided they weren’t right for each other. I was stunned. I guess it serves me right. It was, after all, StarGirl who picked up Steven Spielberg last year and set him up with me, a move that was altogether wrong.

StarGirl and I were in Los Angeles taking meetings, so naturally, Mr. Spielberg was hanging around a lot. In fact, he was all over the place.

StarGirl picked him up and brought him back to the hotel room where she threw him on the bed and I ended up sleeping with him that night. I figured since it had happened once, I might as well take him home to Florida and sleep with him again, so I did.

In thinking about his lovely and talented wife, Ms. Kate Capshaw, I felt guilty.

So, after Mr. Spielberg and I slept together for the second time, I immediately grabbed The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles and tossed it into my rocking chair so now, to me, Mr. Spielberg is just a man in a rocking chair. Nothing more, nothing less, just a man in a rocking chair.

So I’ve done a crazy thing or two? Maybe three or four. Okay, ten.