A madcap romp. A caviar dispatch. A nuisance in the lobby. Sophisticated boom-boom. A cult and occult favorite. Falbalas et Fanfreluches. In Technicolor. With special guest appearances by an illustrious cat. Read chapters one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, the Birthday Special, and nine.
I write to you from Switzerland where, following in the footsteps of great ladies before me, I have been sent away to recover. Don’t worry, I have not tried to kill myself, as I don’t like failing at things and I plan to live forever. Instead, I needed some time to reflect on my disillusionment. So far down the spiral of confusion and tribulation was I that I needed more than my usual remedy of lying down on the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s (or as they say, “please don’t do that here” and “that is neither medically nor psychologically sound”). So, off to Switzerland I went accompanied by the most psychologically sound person I know: my cat.
Here I am housed in a suite with a canopy bed and pink silk bedding and floral curtains that look out, from my gilded window, onto the blue waters of the lake with the snowy mountain peaks in the distance. I scoop caviar from its silver-plated bowl with a potato chip. I do my rounds around the lake. Wrapped in a fur blanket, I have my 11am hot chocolate on the south side, followed by hot chocolate on the west side, a cocktail on the north side, and then, for a change, a hot chocolate on the east side. It’s nice.
It has been two weeks since I suddenly disappeared from New York without telling anyone, and no one has checked on me to make sure I have not been kidnapped—I am physically fine, but my self-esteem may never recover.
To get to the heart of the ennui that has driven me to Switzerland (a place that has traditionally been helpful for fleeing Jews, especially if one was living in one of its boarding countries), I fear that I am being unheard and underappreciated. For my American readers, Thanksgiving—a holiday best spent abroad (for political reasons)—is almost upon us. And, to put it simply, I don’t feel like enough people are thankful for me. Particularly, that enough people are thankful in the form of taking active steps to help in my conquering of Hollywood. It has caused me to have a real crisis of un-conscience.
Perhaps people do not understand these dispatches? Perhaps I have been too subtle and that is why no one has offered to help me get my own television show? Perhaps a rich girl with exceptionally high self-esteem and a single focus on the plight of her own ego and quest for fame is hard for people to relate to? But you know what they say: write what you know. And it’s not like I go to Bergdorf’s every day… Yet, who am I if not a Very Famous Person (in her own mind) beloved by millions (give or take a few million)?
It’s like that old joke where the two women are talking and the one has been talking about herself the entire time, so she turns to the other woman and says, “I’ve been talking non-stop about myself. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?” Someone told me this when I was a child and they were trying to be instructive about my conversational habits. Well, lesson learned!
I have so much to give the world! If only the world would give me my own television show! As Elizabeth Taylor, the only Jewish convert my grandparents ever approved of said, “A nice Jewish girl like me should have it.” And who wouldn’t follow the advice of Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky?
I would bring such quality to the television landscape. My idea of artistic excellence is The Nanny. I have always had my pulse on the important topics of our time—in the sixth grade, I memorized Cher’s eulogy for Sonny Bono and performed it as an audition monologue. Whenever there is a program I find emotionally resonate and relatable, critics call it “emotionally unrealistic” and “no one behaves that way.” What more could you ask for? I am the voice America—nay—the voice the world needs right now. And yet rather than spending eighteen-hour days on a soundstage, I am spending my days in the Swiss countryside.
The other day, as I was sitting at a café on the lake (on the west side for my afternoon hot chocolate) and contemplating whether I should order potatoes with a side of bread or bread with a side of potatoes, I struck up a conversation with the elderly man next to me when he said, in a charming French accent, “please stop singing.” Somehow he realized I was American, and asked if I minded being away for Thanksgiving and that it must be a great relief for my friends, I said it was fine because you could watch Friends anywhere thanks to syndication and global licensing, which was good because everyone needed Friends. And then he said that he was just trying to look out at the lake and reflect in peace, which I took as an invitation to reflect—out-loud—on where it all went wrong for me, and my cat took as an invitation to help herself to his caviar garnish.
And, after much reflection, I did, indeed, hit upon where it all went wrong for me. You know where? Don’t worry, I will tell you.
The great tragedy of my life is that I did not get my start as a cabaret star. Given that my perception of the Jewish people was largely based on the Jews I knew (spiritually, if not literally) like Barbra and Bette, I made the natural assumption that all Jews could sing. I guess it’s a recessive trait. And with me it seems to be very recessed. But perhaps I should use this time to work on putting together a cabaret act that will eventually lead to me getting my own television show and to global stardom? Or as they say, “please don’t do that here” and “that is neither medically nor psychologically sound.”
Well, time to go work on Victoria: The Cabaret!
I really don’t know how I get myself into these situations. Other than, when one has hair like mine, I suppose it really can’t be avoided.
Auf wiedersehen,
Victoria
Footnotes:
Although I have not given the name of the Swiss town (for privacy), it is probably Lucerne since that’s where they went on I Love Lucy.
Switzerland and the Jews have a mixed history as Switzerland was not actively helpful during the Holocaust, but was neutral and therefore, sure, climb those Alps and come right in—you might even find some looted artwork!
There is still time for all of you to express your thankfulness for me by putting me in touch with television producers! This would also be a lovely holiday gift.
My grandparents met Elizabeth Taylor in Switzerland and that was the day my grandfather stopped complaining about Switzerland.
Elizabeth Taylor said, “a nice Jewish girl like me should have it” about the Krupp Diamond (the Krupps were Nazi collaborators).
The Nanny is artistic excellence. The jokes are exquisitely crafted.
CNN used to play Cher’s eulogy for Sonny on loop, and I did, indeed, memorize it.
The television show I am referring to that the critics call “emotionally unrealistic” and I call “emotional resonate” is, of course, The Morning Show. The critics are wrong. Jennifer Aniston is giving the performance of the year, hands down. I have many, many thoughts on The Morning Show and have been working on a thesis I like to call “A Unified Theory of Jennifer Aniston and Joan Didion.” It concerns the elusive and impossible search for cohesive narratives, value plurality, and the assertion that no actress of our time greater represents the oeuvre of Joan Didion than Jennifer Aniston. If anyone would like to discuss, please let me know!
I could be a cabaret star.
Yes, I am serious.
