Are You There, God? It's me, Lacey.

I opened an old journal today and it was kind of (okay, I’m underselling) hilarious. I was madly in love with this guy who is, to be fair, still my friend, but I was SO CRAZY in love with him that I filled up at least 12 pages of my then-journal with wondering when he would stop being important to me. (If you want to know why I was obsessing over getting over him and not obsessing over when I was going to see him again, you should know the reason is that we had a mad, passionate encounter that ended with a very frank and heartfelt conversation in which he revealed his deep and adoring feelings for a woman that was not me. Ah, dudes. So romantic.)

But this whole journal thing got me thinking. What if, one day, I have biographers looking to find out what I was really all about and all they had were my copious “To Do” lists? (And I’m not kidding. I have boxes of notebooks full of lists of things I was or am planning to do.) And I also want it known that I am a voracious reader of classic-era movie star biographies. (For instance, Barbara Leaming’s biographies of both Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe are fabulous reads. Or Get Happy by Gerald Clarke is an excellent behind-the-scenes of Judy Garland’s life.) And whenever I’m reading them I think, “Good lord, what would they know to write about me? I’ve never performed an under-the-table sex act at the Trocadero! I’ve never adopted a child and then given her away when I discovered she had developmental disabilities! I’ve never failed at conceiving while secretly yearning for intellectual equality with my genius playwright hubby! What will they write about?"

The Trocadero in West Hollywood in the 50's.
Looks more like a country club than a nightclub.

This, of course, all relies on my parents dying long before I do. If they were to read about the things I’ve done with Sinatra in Las Vegas, I’d die of mortification. (And, for the record, that’s also why I won’t do nudity. So stop asking, Hollywood!)

So my solution is to leave very specific, beautifully turned, artistic journals all around my place, so that when people come digging (hopefully AFTER I’m dead), they will realize that I was a poet and a largely misunderstood artist. (My OTHER plan, is that one of my dear friends, hopefully Erin, will come through my place before anyone else can and eradicate any signs of my humanness. You know…throw some Comet in my toilet bowl and clean out my “single lady” drawer.)

And if anyone has any suggestions about great movie star biographies, I’m dying to know in what other ways I’m going to need to spice up my life.