Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life (14 page)

Batting her eyes and offering her hand, she said, “Frances.”

He took it. “Lovely to meet you, Frances.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Grant.”

“Cary.”

“Cary,” she gushed.

I could see she wasn’t letting go of his hand. My foot was on the ready. I considered sending another warning signal to her shin. Still holding my mother’s hand, which he couldn’t have let go of if he tried, it was as though she had attached herself to him with superglue! He turned to me.

“Really, Cindy, very good job out there!”

“Thank you!”

“I especially liked it when you told thirty thousand people to ‘Shut up!’”

I took it as a compliment and sincerely thanked him. He turned to Doodles.

“Doodles!” he acknowledged.

“Hey, Cary!” Doodles said. “Nice suit!”

He was referring to Cary Grant’s white suit. I too was wearing white. It was a white pantsuit. The reason being I had read somewhere that Cary Grant wore white to the track, and that is why I chose my outfit. Kismet?

“It was lovely meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

With that, Cary gracefully wrenched his hand from my mother’s vicelike grip, he turned and walked away. My mother said, “My leg is going to have a bruise, you know.”

Mick Fleetwood

I was asked to emcee a charity event honoring Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac. It was a black tie casino night affair with blackjack tables, roulette, and craps played with faux money bought by guests. All the money went to charity. The organizers were very generous and gave me a table of my own so that I could invite guests. I invited my friends Jesse, J. Sean, and Bette. It was a great event and very well put together. Everyone had lots of fun.

I waited until I had finished my duty at the microphone welcoming everyone and introducing the gala’s organizer and leaving her the stage to give the charity’s mission statement. I took my seat at my table with my friends and started sipping a glass of wine. I had no further duties except to help out by calling out the raffle ticket winners at the end of the night. I hadn’t eaten dinner yet and was enjoying the festivities with my friends. We were all having a great time! I made a mental note: Black tie, faux gambling night—great fund-raiser!

We all strained to catch a glimpse of the fabulous Mick Fleetwood, the man of the night. He was sitting at his table directly in front of the stage. His table was filled with family and friends and like us, they were having a grand ol’ time! He would receive an award later for his good works for this charity. The celebrity who would give his introduction and present him with the award had not yet arrived. I was unaware of this fact at the time and poured another glass of wine. Music played, more wine was poured as the evening went on. More speakers appeared on-stage. It was all leading up to Mick Fleetwood’s introduction. I tried to grab a waiter to get a dinner plate, but had no luck.

All of a sudden the organizer appeared at my table, knelt down by me and with a cry of urgency and desperation said, “You’re going to have to give the introduction for Mick.”

“What?”

“The intro for Mick, Cindy, you’re going to have to deliver it!”

She was in a panic and explained to me that the celebrity who was going to introduce him had not shown up yet. I told her I had had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach and I had no speech prepared.

“I’ll get you a pen and a piece of paper.” And she was gone! Bette, Jesse, and J. Sean all turned to me.

“I can’t do this,” I confessed to them with adrenaline coursing through my body.

“Sure you can,” my friends rooted me on.

The organizer was back. “Cindy, we don’t have time. You’ve got to go now! His introduction is next.”

Without a pause, she swept me up like a tsunami. She led me to the stairs, up onto the stage and hurled me toward the microphone and, all the while, all eyes were on me. Damn the celebrity who was supposed to do this. Mick and his wife and guests were all smiling up at me from their table. The organizer stood to my right. I thought,
speak from your red-wine-laden heart
!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “We are here tonight to honor someone.” I can’t remember all of my opening remarks, but they went off well enough. And when it came down to actually introducing our man of the evening and bringing him up onto the stage to accept the honor that was due to him, I remember
exactly
what I said: “Ladies and gentlemen. The best drummer in the entire universe. Fleet Micwood!” I heard it, but I didn’t want to claim it! Then there was the undeniable silence in the room and Mick and his guests and family looked up at me.

“Did I just say that?” I asked my audience.

“Did I just say Fleet Micwood? Did I mention I have dyslexia?” I confessed.

The humiliation was quite uncomfortable, but the wave of the tsunami had to drop me off somewhere. “Let me try that again. Ladies and gentlemen” (my brain strained to put the “icks,” “acks,” and Fleet in the proper order), “the best drummer in the universe, Mick Fleetwood!” He took the stage and hugged me. He was so gracious. His table smiled at me.

J. Sean, Jesse, and Bette encouraged me by saying things like; “It was funny!” and “You were charming!”

The irony is that the celebrity scheduled to present the award showed up immediately after my debacle and delivered a great and elegant speech. Oh well, it could have been worse; I might have called him Meat Flickwood!

The organizer
never
invited me back again!

Cher

Honestly, I have no idea how we ended up there, but one Saturday in the ’70s Penny and I found ourselves trying on clothes at Fiorucci’s in Beverly Hills. Fiorucci’s was an Italian clothing store which featured underground trends of the day such as thongs, camouflage prints, jumpsuits, gold lamé bags, and newly invented Spandex stretch jeans. A trendy clothing wonderland lined with racks and racks of hip clothes as far as the eye could see. Not much of it was Penny’s nor my style, but it was great fun looking. We modeled clothes for each other, holding them up to our bodies, still on the hangers, commenting and laughing about how silly each of us looked. Then all of a sudden we spotted these black, glossy, spandex jeans. We were intrigued so we decided to try them on.

The dressing rooms at Fiorucci’s were situated side by side on a little platform balcony about ten feet above the main floor. You climbed up a few stairs to get up there. While we were both thin and in very good shape thanks in part to the demanding physicality of our TV show, it still proved to be a real challenge to get those pants on. The darn things clung to your thighs no matter how petite you might be. They really should have come with a bucket of oil to help them slide on.

Penny was in the dressing room next to mine. She shouted, “I can’t get these on.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m having trouble, too.” I decided to lay down on the floor. Perhaps inertia, gravity, or sheer determination would help. I yelled back to Penny, “Try putting them on lying down!”

I yanked. I pulled. I squirmed and finally success! I had them on! The problem now was that I was lying on my back like a turtle, unable to stand. I rolled over, pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, crawled to the chair that was in the corner, grabbed onto it and, bracing myself, managed to stand.

“Penny,” I shouted, “do you need help?”

“No,” she replied. “If I can just get to the chair, I can hoist myself up.”

I walked stiffly out of the dressing room, as did Penny. When we saw each other, we burst out laughing. Our legs looked like licorice sticks.

“I’m not getting them,” she said.

“Me neither,” I agreed. “We look stupid. I’ll never wear them.”

Just then a familiar voice chimed in from the floor below. It was Cher looking up at us. She said, “Those pants look great on you girls. You should get them.”

And so we did.

The “Cher pants” hung in both of our closets for years and years, never to be struggled with again.

The Famous Cookie

The cast of
American Graffiti
had been invited to the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party. Earlier in the year Annie Leibovitz had photographed us for the magazine and each of us had received an invitation. A week before the party I was talking with my friend Suzanne Somers. The subject of the party came up. She, of course, had been invited, too. She asked me what I was planning to wear. I had already planned my trusty “big party cocktail” outfit—black cocktail pants, a black velvet jacket, a studded camisole, and all of the good jewelry I owned.

She said, “Cocktail attire, yeah that sounds right.”

I assumed we were on the same page, which gave me confidence about my choice. The
Vanity Fair
party is a very exciting event and my date (one of my managers) and I were thrilled to attend. When we arrived, the paparazzi was all over Angelina Jolie, who was speaking intently with her father, Jon Voight, and her brother, James Haven. As we wended our way past them toward the entrance, a shout rang out.

“Hef! Hef! Over here!”

We turned to see Hugh Hefner with all of his lady friends on his arm. I swear it seemed like he had six girls with him and an arm for each one of them. We were almost to the door when the paparazzi shouted out again.

“Over here! Over here! This way! Right here! Look here!”

Before I could turn, I heard the thunderous sound of a thousand flashes go off.

“Over here! Look here, please!”

I turned to see Suzanne posing and flashing that beautiful smile of hers and wearing what I can only describe as a full-length, nude wedding gown with a train. Diamonds were strategically encrusted to ensure her modesty. On her head she wore a skullcap headdress reminiscent of the 1920s, with strands of diamonds hanging down, framing her face. She made Cher look like a
haus
frau. After I picked my jaw up off of the ground I went inside and waited. Suzanne and her husband, Alan Hamel, came in and started talking with a group of partygoers. I snuck up closely behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. As she turned, her diamonds swung and hit me lightly in the face.

“This is what you call cocktail attire? How much wine did you have to drink to get up the courage to wear this?”

“One glass on an empty stomach!” she laughed.

The next day, her picture in that outfit was plastered everywhere. Her daughter, Leslie Hamel, had designed it, and Suzanne wanted to wear it. Talk about marketing
genius
! Suzanne is a superb businesswoman and I’ve always admired her for that as well as her moxie. And I have to say, all in all it was a pretty stunning “cocktail frock”!

Meanwhile, the party was in full swing. My date had wandered off. I spotted him through the crowd, dancing up a storm. I made my way to a couch near the dance floor and took a seat so I could people watch. Tony Curtis and his wife were dancing, and I must say he was very good. A waiter was walking around with a tray of cookies, but not just
any
cookies. These had elaborate artwork. The images of different
Vanity Fair
magazine covers were artfully re-created in the icing. They were like edible party favors. By the time the waiter got to where I was sitting they were all gone. He told me he’d be back with another tray. Sitting next to me was a woman and her date. I never got her name, but we struck up a conversation. She had a big personality. I was surprised to find she wasn’t an actress. We chatted for a while. I looked up and,
Oh, my goodness!
Who’s this I see standing across the room? One of my favorite actors looking boyishly handsome.

I was such a huge fan, my heart starts to flutter. I’d had a major crush on him for years! We were just about to make eye contact when
whoosh
, his famous girlfriend rushes up and steals his attention away. She’s a genuine beauty and a wonderful actress in her own right. Tonight she was especially dazzling in a diaphanous gown that floated to the floor. She and my “crush” started canoodling, so I turned back to my friend with the big personality. We started chatting when lo and behold I noticed she was holding one of the special cookies and I’ll be darned if it wasn’t my famous fella from across the way smiling up at me from the icing.

“Oh my goodness!” I told her, “Don’t look up too quickly, but the icing actor on your cookie is standing across the way.”

She glanced up. “So he is.”

“I’m a huge fan,” I told her.

“Hey, why don’t you take the cookie and ask him to sign it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’d be too shy and anyway, I don’t have a pen.”

“Here, I’ve got one!” And quick as a wink, she pulled a marker from her evening bag, handed it to me, and said, “Now go get that autograph, girl!”

With her encouragement, cookie and marker in hand, I start to make my way over to the actor who was now standing alone when again,
whoosh
, out of nowhere his girlfriend appeared right in front of me, right in my path.

“Where did you get that cookie?” she asked.

I was so startled that I answered as if taking an oral pop quiz. “From my friend over there,” as I gestured toward the couch where my friend was now sipping a drink, watching all of this. The girlfriend kept her eyes trained on me and of course the cookie.

“I want that cookie,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry but
I
need this cookie. I was going to ask him to sign it,” I said, nodding toward the actor.

“But
I
want to give him that cookie,” she stated.

“Well, really, I—.” She was now standing in my personal space and I must say it was uncomfortable. She was so close that if she had any pores in her alabaster skin I could have seen them.

“So, can I
have
that cookie?” she asked.

I squeezed the cookie as if it were somehow going to speak up and defend me.

“You know, truthfully,” I said, “it’s not mine to give.” I gave a quick glance back to my friend who was now sizing up the situation. Turning back, I shifted to the right ever so slightly. She countered. She was good. If it had been a
Laverne & Shirley
episode, the writers would have had Laverne step in right about then and take her down.