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    Gretchen claimed she had no idea that his sun-kissed glow came as a result of his being a part owner in a chain of tanning salons. She was simply engaging in friendly on-air banter.
    No wonder dear Simon had facial tics, and spent the entire two hours in the control room chewing gum, cracking his knuckles, and muttering his oft-used phrase, “Oh fucking well.”
    So how best to describe the woman for whom I awoke before God each weekday morning so that when she greeted viewers, she looked not only polished and professional, but good enough to screw (her words, not mine)?
    Well, she once asked me to wipe her ass because her manicure wasn’t dry (I said sorry, wet polish made me sick). She used to call me Tweety Bird because Robin was the name of her ex-husband’s cat (until I started calling her ma’am because Gretchen was the name of my ex-husband’s bookie). And her latest edict was that I wear a pager, like a prisoner’s monitoring bracelet, so that I could be summoned should her stubborn rosacea peek through the powder.
    Though she was an award-winning broadcaster, and the best in the business at excavating the truth from guests with informational treasure, the mere sound of her heels clickety-clicking across the studio floor made me shake. In fact, so great was my inner loathing, the only way I could stand in her personal space day after day was to imagine her either beingdissed by fellow diva Katie Couric, or being sent back home to local affiliate WCNC-TV in Charlotte.
    In fact, from the moment I began cleansing her southern-belle pores to when I applied the last of the loose powder, I had to hold my tongue and also my makeup brushes so I didn’t accidentally jab a handle into her neck.
    Tonight, especially, I would earn my keep, as three people informed me that Gretchen spent the day slugging tequilas at her Westhampton beach house, then fell asleep in the sun. Now her face looked like a farmstand tomato.
    But before I could take the Gretchen challenge, I had to find a place to park my mother.
    I was bringing her down to the greenroom when I ran into one of the stage managers.
    “Oh thank God you’re here.” Benitez stopped me. “Simon needs you.”
    “Hey Benny Boy. This is my mom. Mom? Benny. So he’s freaking?”
    “Hi Mom. No. He’s having a massage. Of course he’s going crazy.” He looked at my fancy attire. “What did they get you out of?”
    “A bar mitzvah on Long Island. You?”
    “What did they get me out of?” He laughed. “Angelina.”
    “Oh my God. You are such a perv! Did I not just tell you this is my mother?”
    “Oh yeah. Sorry ma’am…Anyway, Simon’s in the control room…”
    “Let me get Gretchen in the chair first.”
    “She’s in hair. Go. I’m not kidding. He’s chewing his cheek.”
    “So much excitement.” My mother clapped. “I’m so glad I’m here.”
    “Oh me too.” I sighed. “Okay, you know what? Follow me.” I grabbed her hand and brought her into Gretchen’s dressing room. I’d find out what Simon wanted, take her back to thegreenroom, fetch Gretchen, and, God willing, the two would never meet.
    “This is where you work?” My mother beamed. “It’s so clean. Not like your apartment.”
    “Didn’t I tell you when it comes to my job I’m very neat? Everything has a place. See all the bins and baskets? I can reach for cotton balls, moisturizer, whatever, without even looking.”
    “Too bad you can’t live like this at home. You’d be a much happier person.”
    “Oh I know…I’d still be divorced, but I’d know where I left my scissors.”
    “Funny. Now what can I do to help? Answer the phone? Organize drawers?”
    “Not unless you join the union or the circus, although around here, it’s the same thing.”
     
    Just as with the party invitation I never would have accepted had I known how it would turn out, I wouldn’t have rushed off to find Simon if I’d had an inkling what he was about to ask of me.
    I knew, of