By Rosalie Tirella
So, there we were, last night, my guy and I, at a book reading/signing in a bar. We had been eating crackers, listening to music and talking (believe it or not) about zombies, and then I turned to the booth to my left and saw the real thing: Dianne Williamson!
The Telgram and Gazette’s columnist, Dianne Williamson! Zombie alert!!!
If my readers – or hers – don’t already know: Dianne and I hate each other’s guts. It’s a very genuine feeling – one of the purest I have! And if, as my guy likes to say, we were in a Clint Eastwood movie last night – or in the good ol’ USA in, say, about 1840 – I would have smashed his beer bottle, given him the jagged neck and he (with me cheering him on!) would have pushed that hunk o’ Newcastle into her chipmunk face! (Dianne has fat, fat cheeks – a face that belongs on a chipmunk! It’s like she’s got two big wads of chewing tobacco on either side of her puss! No make that tennis balls!) Then pouff! Dianne would be dead! Lying in a pool of zombie blood, looking … well, looking exactly like she did last night, only without the blood covering her face and pink (cashmere?) sweater.
But I digress … .
“She’s big!” I said to my guy.
“It’s all flab,” he said. “No – cellulite.”
Dianne Williamson looked exactly the way she writes: big, brutal, heavy handed. Not at all the way she describes herself in her columns: someone you would think is petite and pretty. No, this woman has a … mug. She will always have a mug – no matter how much black mascara she globs on (way, way, way too much!) or how maniacally she over-tweeezes her eyebrows (they look hideous).
With her hair cropped super, super, super, short and dyed (over dyed – it looked like straw) a henna brown/red, she looked like an old woman, trying to be young, an older woman who will – unlike my aunts and some of the woman I grew up with, women who aged beautifully – go to her grave looking like a caricature of her 30-something self.
And something else: everybody had a date last night. Or they came with a friend of two. Dianne Williamson was the only person who came to the event alone.
And she left her booth … alone.
For all the sparkling repartee she has sprinkled in her columns, all the phrases turned just so … I expected more. I would have (believe it or not) LOVED to have seen a Dianne Williamson I guess I had imagined: a Carrie Bradshaw kinda gal, a beautiful or at least stylishly pretty woman, a gal looking divine in a bar booth, canoodling with some gorgeous Mr. Big. Or a gal chatting it up and having a ball – being the center of attention – with her glamorous gal pals.
Instead: A big, unattractive, looking blob, with a face cold and puffy-looking. A face with too much mascara and over plucked brows. A face exuding: zero warmth. Zero expressiveness (has Dianne botoxed her face?).
I guess sometimes we even want our enemies to look attractive.
I expected my nemesis to look a hell of a lot better. And not quite so … alone.