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Mob Scene

"Where are you from?"

It's a question we all get. Sometimes I tell people the whole truth. I'm from Ohio, but I grew up in Southern California (before the O.C. was cool), finished up high school back in Cincinnati, then lived in Springfield (no, not with the Simpsons), Yellowstone National Park, New Orleans, back to Cincy, back to New Orleans for a 4-year-long weekend, Houston (via Cincinnati), Chicago, New York and now London.

"Gosh, so many places," is the usual reply. "Was your family in the military?"

"No," I tell them. "But, witness relocation has been very good to me."

Every now and again, people believe me. "Were you in the mafia?" one guy asked me a couple weeks ago, and he looked around to see if anybody heard. He seemed more than a little excited by the prospect. I didn't want to let him down, nor did I want to lie ... so I just shrugged my shoulders, tapped my nose, and pulled out the picture of a horse’s decapitated head that I keep in my wallet.

Truth be told, I do have mafia connections.

The Denim Mafia.

I've known the Godmother for more than 20-mumble mumble years now. We met when I lived in New Orleans, long before she was "made." She was this fantastically cool, hip New Yorker (when I only dreamed of being able to live there) and we had mutual friends. She is truly one of the hands-down funniest people I know. She called this morning to tell me that these here little blog snippets make her laugh, and she reads them every day.

Imagine that. I make the funny lady laugh.

It's always good to catch up with old friends. Friends who are woven into the fabric of your lives. You know the ones ... you don't always see or talk to them, but when you reconnect, you can retrace that particular thread and find so many memories.

Tiny tupperware containers holding pink crystals on a French Quarter balcony. My first trip to Southampton, long before Lizzie Grubman knew how to wreck drive an SUV. Tales of trannie Asian hookers and blood-lettings in an Indian hotel bed. Nipple piercings ... both of us at different times. Imminent water breakage on the dance floor at my 40th birthday. Cute boyfriends, cuter husbands. Crazy families, some by blood, some by choice. Break-ups and hook ups and dead friends and new beginnings. Cancer scares and A-MAZ-ING recoveries. Getting hooked up for a Fire Island share, and finding out that would-be housemates (her BFF's boyfriend and my boyfriend) had dallied with each other years before (we're all connected, I tell you). Kandinsky kindergartners. So many stories. So much laughter.

She's worked for all the names in denim, and now she's the CEO of her own company.

We've going to have some lunch when I'm in New York next week. Yay. It's not every day you get to have lunch with somebody that high up in the mafia. Maybe I'll get made, and come home wearing (33x34) 5ep.

Thanks for the call, sweetie. See you soon.