A few years ago, I discovered Palm Springs. It’s a playground for the rich and famous, both of which I am not. If you aren’t driving a Mercedes or BMW, you might as well be the scourge of the earth. This past week, I only took my rented Ford Focus out when absolutely necessary … usually under cover of night when I was less likely to be shunned.
My good friends Dave and Greg have a “get-away” place there. As does my friend Don. I try and invite myself out as much as possible (like I did for my BDay weekend), but I think they’re on to me. I don’t think they appreciated it when I tried to have their house keys duplicated at Home Depot either.
Palm Springs was created as an oasis so Hollywood muckety-mucks (and, of course, yours truly) could escape. It’s smack dab in the middle of a desert so the heat can be stifling — well over 100 degrees for weeks at a time in the summer. I liken it to opening the oven door and sticking your face in it. Inferno á go-go. Once while I was there it reached 115 degrees. I went from the house to the pool and back, and in the process my flip-flops melted. My friends looked at me like I was crazy when I turned the car off to run in to the convenience store. Apparently, etiquette mandates you leave the car running with the air on full blast. Everyone does it … especially if you’re going to be gone for less than 10 minutes. Who knew? Auto thieves in Palm Springs must have a low tolerance to heat. Or bursting into flame. Whichever.
Palm Springs is made up of two distinct groups. The gays. And the grays. More often than not, they overlap. That would explain the opulent decadence in interior design. Each place is more overdone than the last. I remember going to a friend’s friend’s house once. It looked like the ghost of Gloria Swanson threw up.
When I’m in Palm Springs, I make an enormous batch of margaritas. (I’ve seen smaller oak barrels of wine.) I then proceed to park myself on a raft in someone’s pool for three to four days. Oversized beach hat, check. Jackie O sunglasses, check. Bottle of SPF 195 suntan lotion, check. It’s really only awkward when the owners arrive home unexpectedly. Usually, I’ve blacked out in their beds. I tell them I’m Margot Kidder. Sometimes they buy it.
This trip I had a long-term desert dweller tell me that I was “painfully white”. This was despite having a fresh spray-tan that bronzed me up nicely. I didn’t take offense, mind you. She was right. Then again, her skin resembled a handbag made out of a sharpei puppy.
Thank you, Palm Springs for helping me ring in my 40th BDay in glorious, sunny splendor. I promise to be back every chance I get. Heck, I may even buy a place there … providing I learn to rob banks or steal cars.