7

DEAR JOAN

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you and laugh, and cry a bit, because I miss you so much. Yes, yes, I know, you’d prefer I’d quit it with the crying bullshit and just stick to the laughter, but you bitch, I just can’t help it, okay? After twenty-five years of friendship, I am constantly remembering the good times.

For example, once when I was on a flight to New York, I was dead tired and fell asleep before the plane had even left the ground. When I woke up upon arrival, I couldn’t see anything and momentarily thought I’d gone blind, or maybe that I was even dead.

Then I realized it was a piece of paper. Taped to my forehead. I ripped it off, thinking, What kind of maniac tapes a piece of paper to another passenger’s forehead?! Then I realized it was a note:

“Kell!!! You must stop stalking me! xoxox Look in 3H! You have a friend! Joan PS-Do you need a lift? PS2-You don’t snore.”

I turned around, and sure enough, there you were, giving me a little wave from 3H, quite pleased with yourself for having talked the flight attendants into giving you some tape. More proof that everything, even air travel, was more fun when you were around.

Joan, you and I first met via satellite. I was six years old when you invited my father and his children—my siblings and me—to appear on your talk show for a Father’s Day special. I sat in a studio in London on a live feed to your television studio and proceeded to stick my tongue out, yawn, and scratch my vagina while my dad attempted to explain that we were just a normal family. It was somewhat prophetic, too: At the time, I was still too young to know that the word vagina was actually your favorite.

Joan, you were a comedian, international superstar, humanitarian, game changer, mother, and grandmother. You were the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met in my life (and remember, I was raised by Sharon Osbourne, so this says a lot). Even though you had a mouth like a truck driver, you were the ultimate lady, one of the most gracious and generous people in the world. You were a legend, and you were my best friend.

Fashion Police was the best working years of my life, and I know I never told you this, but the reason for that was you, Joan. Every day I woke up excited to go to work because it meant I got to go to work and bask in your humor, wisdom, and light. Even though your daughter, Melissa, our executive producer, was adamant that we not speak to each other or any of the other cohosts during the week in an effort to keep our comments on air spontaneous, you and I found a way around this.

We created secret e-mail accounts from which we wrote back and forth constantly. You were always up so late working and always had to get up so early for work that I don’t know if you ever bothered to keep track of time at all! I would wake up every morning to a string of thoughts from you, which meant I was always laughing before I’d even gotten out of bed. When you passed away, it didn’t really hit me until that first morning when I woke up and found my secret in-box empty. That is when I more or less stopped checking e-mail entirely.

For most of my life, I thought I had more than enough family (can you blame me?), but when I met you and Missy (which is what we called Melissa), you filled a hole I hadn’t even known was there. You were the grandmother and Missy the kind of sister I had never had.

Joan, you were one of the first people, outside of my family, who really, truly believed in me. E! auditioned hundreds of girls for my role on Fashion Police, but you said no to every one of them and insisted the producers give it to me. When I had my seizure (spoiler alert! See here for details), you came and visited me in the hospital every single day. I’m pretty sure I’m one of the few people you ever canceled a show for (though I do feel bad about that!). You may have been a workaholic, but there was nothing more important to you than the people you loved, and knowing that made me feel as though I could do anything. You were as loyal as they come, and I’ve never seen anyone so devoted to her daughter and grandson.

I think everyone needs an older, wiser friend who can give them advice, and you were that for me. You showed me what it was like to work hard, not just for yourself but for the people who depend on you. You would be up all night before the show, shoot in Los Angeles, then get on a plane and fly to New York to do a stand-up show, then turn around and do it all again. You were always the first one at work and the last one to leave, and you never complained about any of it.

You taught me to always remember the names of the people I am working with and that there is no distinction on set—every job was just as important as yours. When one of the writers on Fashion Police needed a hip replacement, you gave up your one day off to perform at a benefit show for him. For you, work was something you never took for granted, and you taught me to always remember how lucky we were to even have jobs. “Never give up and never turn down a job,” you said, “because you should never think you’re too good for something.”

You thought it was fabulous to have enemies. If people didn’t like you, it meant you were probably doing something to succeed in this world. Every week, you’d ask, “Who do we hate this week?” Then I’d fill you in, and you’d be thrilled and say, “Oh, marvelous!”

You lived by the idea that you should never, ever apologize for who you are. If who you are offends people, then it is because they don’t get you, and that’s their problem, not yours. You never apologized for who you were or what you said. You stood by it all.

As much fun as it was to watch you make other people laugh, what I loved most was when you cracked yourself up. There would be times when you were laughing so hard at a joke you hadn’t even delivered yet that you couldn’t get it out.

When I was a guest on your Internet talk show, In Bed with Joan, I had no idea that we would be filming from your bed in Melissa’s house. In preparation for my arrival, you turned Melissa’s laundry room into a green room. It was about the size of a prison cell, and you covered the washer and dryer with these beautiful lace linens and set out a Baccarat bowl filled with candy. When I got to the house, you had your assistant Sabrina walk me in and say, “This is your dressing room,” then shut the door behind her when she left.

There wasn’t even room for me to sit down, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d never been to Melissa’s house before, so I didn’t want to be rude. I just hopped up on the dryer and waited there. That was when you sent your housekeeper in to dive between my legs to pull clothes out of the dryer and start to do laundry, and then I knew. Joan’s fucking with me right now! I thought. Sure enough, you were in the next room absolutely pissing yourself.

You were also the only person who knew when I’d had sex. I would say nothing, but I’d walk into work and you’d take one look at me and go, “Oooh, you had sex last night! Tell me everything!”

Poof! I’d go bright red and practically scream, “Oh my god!” but you always managed to get the details from me anyway.

You and I also shared a common trait—we are both nuts about germs! You taught me this trick where, before going in an airplane bathroom, you’d ask the stewardess for a bottle of vodka, then throw it all over the sink and seat to disinfect everything. It made you smell like a boozer, but it definitely worked.

Another thing you did, which worked in your mind, was to take a paper toilet seat cover, place it on the seat, then set it on fire to burn off all the germs. How you weren’t setting off fire alarms all over Hollywood, who knew, but you did this once on the set of Fashion Police and caught the plastic toilet seat on fire. It melted and shriveled up into a misshapen plastic mass, but the E! budgets being what they were, instead of buying a new one, they just took the toilet seat from the men’s room and gave the blokes the burnt one. Soon, the crew were coming to me, asking if they could shit in my dressing room because it hurt their asses to sit on the men’s toilet for too long. I’d always say yes and hand over the key.

You always said that the worst thing about getting older was that you ran out of people to whom you could say, “Remember when . . . ?” Well, I can’t say that to you anymore, but I am so happy, and so proud, to say that I knew you, a magnificent woman, for twenty-five years and saw you fifty-two weeks a year for six of those.

Now, a note to you, lovely reader: In Joan’s honor, as soon as you are finished with this chapter, I want you to shout her favorite word—vagina. If you’re embarrassed because you’re in public or reading somewhere else where you might make a scene, just stop for a second and ask yourself, What would Joan Rivers do?

Love,

Kelly O