Labor Day in the Hamptons
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Something about starting a new essay feels so hopeful. Like this will be the one in which I keep my thoughts coherent and cohesive so that I might actually be able to share them with the public. My public. My adoring fans, composed of my godmother and my sister. And occasionally my second cousin who inquired about whether I’ve published any essays recently to which I shamefully replied, “not for the last year…” Sue, this is for you 🖤
So much has happened over the last six months that I would love to share but I’m choosing to refrain because after all, this is social media in 2025. Not all those who follow me actually give a damn about me let alone root for my success, and I’ve worked so hard for the good things I have in my life that I’d rather not expose them to the evil eye, ok? Besides it would be a lot. I’m sparing you another five page diatribe you’d have to pretend to have read for my benefit. (Of course if you do that I love you and thank you).
So here’s a short essay I wrote last week. Yes! Just last week. Perhaps the quickest turn around for a piece of my writing to date. I’m letting it be messy. *Deep breaths* I am letting it be messy.
Well, La Dee Da
I’m currently on the Jitney headed to Bridgehampton to do a table read of a very long screenplay about… I have no idea. No truly I’ve read this thing back and forth and I can just barely put together what this story is about. Granted, I’m told that it’s part three of a four part anthology, which means perhaps there’s some context missing that would make it a little bit less convoluted. I’ll be reading for a few parts in this, but the main one is basically the funny best friend. It’s the role I’m most often drawn to in projects as I find ingenues to be generally uninteresting and unsympathetic. This character also has a maternal quality to her which I enjoy getting to explore.
The writer and producer hosted a table reading for part two of the anthology just last month and there was a great turnout. Sonja Morgan was there! (She’s a friend of the writer). Sadly, this one doesn’t seem to have been promoted at all. Perhaps it’s because it’s the Thursday before Labor Day Weekend. I’ll be surprised if anyone shows up especially sans the prospect of getting wine drunk with a reality tv socialite.
I suppose it isn’t meant to be anyway; as much as I’d love to spend the night schmoozing with people so far out of my tax bracket they wouldn’t hire me to pick up their dry cleaning, I can’t get home too late. I’m shooting a short film tomorrow for yet another production in which I’m cast as an eccentric and comically unstable yet somehow endearing bitch. Think Jane Krakowski or Catherine O’Hara types of roles. Of course I’d be lying if I said I don’t like these kinds of parts. I love them. And I must be made for them as I fear they’re the only ones I’m being offered. That being the case, I’m pretty sure that whoever put together today’s reading just barely looked at our submission materials because what else could explain my being cast as a grounded, realistic, and for lack of a better word – normal person? You know what… let’s not overthink this. I’ll take it.
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In my dreams I’m jetting around for all of these projects and getting paid millions to do them… thousands? Hundreds. $100? Ok, fine. But you’ll cover the travel, right? Awesome! I’m in.
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I haven’t eaten today. I had to wake up extra early to catch the Long Island Railroad to take my father to a doctor’s appointment. Of course that appointment ran an hour and a half over so I had virtually no time to get him back to his apartment where I then had to take a cab to the bus stop 40 minutes away in Queens, to catch this thing – evidently the only means of public transportation available as there were only two Hamptons bound trains scheduled for the entire day. I suppose it’s not so bad considering I haven’t actually… ahem, used the restroom today. If I so much as slightly veer from my normal daily routine my bowels respond like I’m in an active war zone. NOTHING will happen. I even gave myself extra time this morning for my coffee to take effect and… you know what? Let’s move on.
While my dad was being scoped I was scoping out the nearby shopping centers. This particular area of Long Island is renowned for its tremendous expanse of retail stores and shopping malls, perfect for the gal on the go who needs to switch her mind off to wander around touching things in a well lit, air conditioned liminal space. So, Target. I had just got back into the car when the clinic called and said my dad would be ‘ready for pickup’ in twenty minutes. I was 10 minutes away from the clinic. Which meant I had an extra ten minutes to spare, (math!), so I thought I might use them to finally get something to eat. Except the only place nearby was a Walmart. They have food there, right? Well, sort of. I managed to snag the only gluten free food I could find – a box of Annie’s Bunny Grahams. They’re like Teddy Grahams if Teddy Grahams had the texture of wet sand and the flavor of stale animal crackers.
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Ah, we’re almost there. You can tell you’ve entered Hamptons territory when everything starts to turn white. White houses, white storefronts, white fences, white hydrangeas (immaculately manicured), and, you guessed it, white demons. I mean white people! White people. Sorry.
I’m seated at the very back of the bus next to the bathroom and have therefore been involuntarily appointed, Keeper of The Toilet. Every time someone gets to the door they look at me or the woman across the aisle from me, because of course we’ve been keeping track of who’s going in there and who’s coming out. The lock’s also a little tricky so we’ve on more than one occasion had to say, “You have to lift the lever over the handle at the same time.”
Right now, an older blonde woman with a perfect salon blowout is standing above me. She must be in her late sixties or early seventies. She hesitates at the door and looks at me to which I dutifully respond, “I think there’s someone in there.”
And she replies, with such droll disdain as though possessed by Martha Stewart herself, “I know. I can see the sign,” as she points to the lit up image of two stick figures in red. Well, fuck me then. That’s some black-car-service attitude for a woman who’s about to hover over a piss pot in the back of a Jitney.
But it was exhilarating. It’s like being at Disney World, everyone’s in character. I just got condescended to by a boomer in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren linen. Pinch me!
The woman across the aisle from me, my partner in bathroom management, has a dog on her lap. A Bichon Frise with icey blue eyes that whenever I look over at, are staring directly into mine. I mean it. That dog has been staring at me – this entire time. You probably think I’m exaggerating for effect and I wish I was. Right now his expression suggests that he’s been pondering a question and just hasn’t struck up the nerve to ask me. In a moment I expect he’ll say, “Excuse me, ma’am, have you accepted our lord and savior Jesus Christ into your heart?” Alas, little Bichon, I have not. And it doesn’t appear like you have either… I rebuke whatever the hell is behind those scary little eyes.
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Now we’re 5 minutes away from the Bridgehampton stop. From there it’s just a five minute walk to the boutique that will be hosting the table read. I have no idea if there will be food for us, since so little was said after I confirmed my attendance. In fact, when they first contacted me I wasn’t even entirely sure I got the gig. The only message I received after submitting was, “Can I have your email?” That’s it. No, “We liked your work! We’d love for you to read for the role of blah, blah, blah.” And certainly no further details as to what to expect upon arrival except the address and that we’d be reimbursed for the commute. Good enough for me.
Actors. We’ll do anything. Take a two and a half hour bus ride to the furthest reaches of Long Island to read a script for $100? Sure.
I got off the bus on Montauk Highway and took a moment to appreciate the beauty of this part of the world. Setting aside the cold and unsettling human specimens, there was a delicious ocean breeze sweeping around me and the ambient sound of crickets and frogs. Heavenly. But now I need to get food. There’s a gourmet grocery store, (what other kind would it be?), two doors away from the boutique. Great.
I walk in and immediately feel I am being watched. Is it my outfit? My makeup? Maybe it’s the necklace. I thought they let Jews into these spaces now. Relax, ok? I’m not going to steal anything. I would but the only thing you have is tubs of ceviche and guacamole sitting on melting beds of ice. That’s a little hard to just throw into my bag not to mention they look disgusting. Do none of you eat carbs? Eventually I found a small section by the checkout line with foods that I could almost afford – chips, pretzels, and candy. I left the store with the cheapest item I could find, a $4 bag of Hal’s potato chips. And a David bar… that fell into my bag.
I arrived at the boutique and saw a motley crew of about five people talking animatedly in front of the entrance as I made my way up the cobblestone driveway. I followed them inside and was greeted by the writer who handed me a personalized script and a baseball hat with the name of the movie on the front. How cute! We mingled for a bit while the tables were being set up along with rows of chairs for our ‘audience.’
The boutique was spacious and beautiful and of course, white. White carpets, white shelves, white counters – but with playful pieces of art placed throughout (the value of which I can only begin to imagine) that brought welcome pops of color and personality to the space. Of the various vendors featured in the store I recognized one of the brands with a display case in the back, its name written in silver with glowing white lights behind the letters that read, Skinney.
Skinney is a high end medspa that also has its own line of skincare products and ‘pharmaceuticals.’ I learned about them when I was on one of my late night internet benders in which I obsessively research all of the cosmetic procedures I would like to get because I’m making a list to have handy when hell freezes over and I can afford to completely overhaul my unfortunate appearance. Not to be unrecognizable but to “glow-up” as they say. Like Taylor Swift, or Emma Stone, or Emily Blunt, or Anne Hathaway, or Margaret Qualley, or Bella Hadid, or Kendall Jenner, or Lindsay Lohan, or Blake Lively – I could go on – all of whom have certainly never, ever had any cosmetic work of any kind. Oh, well. I suppose my research is akin to when people browse through house listings on Zillow. Just ridiculous.
One night I was particularly fixated on my body and so of course my weight and subsequently weight loss drugs and how to get them. It’s not so easy when you’re not obese.
Recently there have been some influencers who claim to be “microdosing” GLP-1’s in order to lose those stubborn “last 10 pounds” and maintain it. As a woman who will never be pretty enough, I know the next best thing I could be is skinny. And I’ve certainly never felt small enough.
*Oh, you don’t like that? Me neither. But I didn’t create this monster so get over it or go read something else because it doesn’t get any better from here.
Alas, Skinney Medspa. I don’t recall which specific influencer put me onto them but does it matter? All I can remember is that she seems like an awful person. But thin! Somewhere in her posts about her off label use of diabetes medication, she tagged Skinney Medspa. I clicked through their site until I was met with the usual disclaimer that you need to have a certain BMI in order to qualify for a prescription… wait. What? But I thought – then how did she? Ohhhhh. I get it. You need to have a certain BMI, wink wink.
No, you just need a black card.
While I don’t imagine they’re selling those particular items in the back of this boutique it would be kinda neat. Imagine going to the store to buy a pink Marc Jacobs tote (yes they had that, yes it is ugly), and pick up your weight loss drugs. Ah, what a world.
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The actress slated to read for the main role didn’t show up. Thankfully a beautiful woman who says she has experience as an actor was there to step in and save the day! Now, to her credit this was a cold read for her and she was trying to play someone 30 years her junior and did I mention English is not her first language? So I suppose given the circumstances she did the best she could. Ok, it was painful. But we made it through. By the end of the read there was food waiting for us – a large sushi platter, a tray of mini sandwich wraps and some baked goods. Every time I eat sushi I wonder why I ever eat sushi. But after the day I had the free food was a blessing.
I congratulated the writer before leaving and he was very gracious. He complimented my performance and said he’d love to have me back in October when he plans to host a table read for the next and final installment, even saying that my character will be featured more prominently. Earlier in the evening he announced that the project was just bought by a major production company (no, I won’t tell you who they are or what they’ve produced but they are indeed a very big deal), and he suggested that some of us might be considered for roles when the films actually go into production.
Here’s the thing – if I believed any of this, I certainly wouldn’t be sharing it here. Evil eye, remember? I’d be guarding this like the crown jewels. Alas, I am not stupid nor naïve. He most certainly isn’t considering any of us for roles when this thing actually goes into production and I don’t even think he plans to invite me back for October’s table read. But it was very sweet of him to say so.
And that’s it! See? I kept it short and sweet. I was tempted to share a little about my day on set for the short film the next day, but that’s the kind of story I’d rather regale you with in person. In other words, I can’t put it in writing. I will say that two of the young women I worked with told me I remind them of Kathleen Turner. Yes, that one. Oh, how I wish one of them were wearing white.
I’ve got a few things I’m working on that I hope to be able to share soon but in the meantime, please indulge me and watch my Instagram reels in which I get zooted and dance in the five square feet of floor space I have between the heaps of detritus overtaking my bedroom like a fungus. Say what you want about me but you can’t say I have bad taste in music. If you ask nicely I might even share my playlists.
K, love you, bye!
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