I’ve been best friends with Dew since December 2, 1980 – the day we both set off for Cleveland, OH to join the second national touring company of Annie. Through all these years, we’ve remained as close as sisters – no matter where our life’s journeys have taken us.
There was a time when we did live together, though, during our 20s – in the last cheap loft in TriBeCa. It was enormous, shabby, and boasted two living rooms and four bedrooms – but only three windows, at the far end of the apartment, overlooking an alley and the back entrance to the Juvenile Courts of Manhattan.
It was during this Friends-like period of our lives, what with the funky loft, our best guy friends living close by in their own shabby apartment, and my improbable job with Ralph Lauren – when Dew and I became, in essence, each other’s Perez Hilton. We were the GFY girls before they were! There was not one red carpet event, celebrity pregnancy, performance or piece of gossip that passed us by.
I remember a full week of intense discussions regarding the possible trajectory of Laura Linney’s career. We mourned Jackie O‘s passing with the grief of the stricken. And, it must be confessed, many an evening was spent recreating the scene when, together in a nursing home at the end of our lives, the local talent troupe would come into our recreation room and disturb our Bingo game by serenading us with clunky piano versions of Alanis Morrisette’s “You Oughtta Know.”
When Dew moved to Los Angeles in the era before Skype, it took a lot of creative budgeting to be able to spend the time we deemed necessary to keep up the communication – especially during important national holidays, such as the Oscars. When I got my phone bill after we watched the entire ceremony on the phone with each other one year, I realized it would have been cheaper for me to fly out and watch it with her in person.
And that is precisely what I did the following year. Off I went to Los Angeles for the Oscars. We made special preparations the day of the big show, including a run to Trader Joe’s executed with the precision and brutal grace of a military operation. And when the blessed hour came – by the time Joan Rivers took her place at the end of the red carpet – we were firmly ensconced on the sofa, in our pajamas, surrounded by mountains of junk food, and ready to rock.
At some point I asked her, “Do you think we should go over and actually, you know, see it all?”
“Are you kidding me?” She reached for more spinach dip. “We’ve got the best seat in the house.” And she motioned for her poor, beleaguered husband to refill our wine glasses.