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for her to
whip out a notepad and start taking notes. I just shook my head. “You know
what, Babs? Everything about me is fake—including my intestinal tract.”
                    At this point, Babs laughed so hard that her
Evian began to spill on the sleeve of her latest Donna Karan black-brushed gold
shirt.
                    “You should try a good laxative tea—they
work, too,” I told her, knowing it was my duty to spill the beans. “A few sips
in the morning, and . . . thunder!” I said. Now Babs was laughing so hard she
was clutching her own stomach.
                    “I can’t believe we’re having this
conversation,” she said in that wonderful Brooklyn whine she never really lost.
(Thank God.) I was amazed: here was a woman who truly has it all. Yet despite
the money, the fame, the work, the acclaim, and the love she’s found in the
last several years, even she still doesn’t feel perfect enough.
                    “Life is a shit sometimes,” I told her.
                    “Janice, you said it,” she replied.
                    Unfortunately, not every icon behaves quite
that way. Some time back, I was on a first-class flight from Los Angeles to
Munich with my old friend and flame, photographer Michael Reinhardt. The two of
us were arguing about the simple things in a love match—
                    things like territory and control. Mike and
I were two alphas; we were always going teeth to teeth with each other that
way. It’s tough to be in a relationship with someone whose personality is
exactly as strong as your own—especially when that means extra-strong.
                    On that flight, I let him win—but not because
I felt like giving up, mind you. He won because I had to take myself out of the
fight. Thanks to severe thunderstorms, the plane was rocking. Before too long,
the pilot gave us the bad news: “Attention, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been
in-E V E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K E . . . A N D I ’ M P E R F E C
T
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                    formed that we’ll have to circle for the
next forty-five minutes.” At that point the piece of toast I’d consumed earlier
that day—along with all the vodka I’d been chugging on the flight—began to
churn. So I ran to the bathroom and hurled. Mike just sat there reading his
magazine, totally oblivious. (Did he deign to move one leg so I could squeeze
past him on my way to the john? I can’t remember.)
                    Afterward, I felt so ill I wasn’t sure how I
was going to make it back to my seat. When I opened the bathroom door, I looked
like death warmed over—but my spirit was suddenly lifted when I locked eyes
with this little angel of a girl, standing there patiently waiting her turn.
                    “Lady, can I help you?” she said in a wee
voice, filled with concern.
                    “You all right, lady?” I glanced up to see
who mothered this beautiful little girl, but much to my horror discovered the
face of gloom. “Get back to your seat and leave her alone!” screamed Ms. Diana
Ross to her daughter.
                    God, no wonder she has such a reputation, my
one brain cell thought.
                    “Doncha talk to my kid,” Ms. Ross said,
practically shoving me out of the way to go into the bathroom while her kid
waited there silently, legs crossed. When your mother’s a diva, I guess you
have to hold it. Ah, the kindness of strangers. It’s a good thing Ms. Ross didn’t
ask me for any beauty tips. The first one I would dish out? Lighten the fuck
up. Some people who get frown lines actually deserve them.
                   
                    22.
                    The Best Beauty Tips Ever
                    I know