Sunday, July 28, 2002

Martha Stewart's Sing Prison Bitch Diary:
The Missing First Pages: Part Two

Dear Diary:

This facility has positively Palestinian standards for bedding and linens.
They had the audacity to provide the following items, which even my Chows would eschew.
First I received a thin, scratchy wool single bed blanket, with frayed binding and moth holes from improper storage. The gray color was tinged with yellow hues, making it a decorating nightmare.
Then I was handed a threadbare, dingy white sheet of manmade fibers, and a thin foam pad, encased in plastic to use as a "mattress." The "mattress" was much like the sanitary doggy napkins I used on my Chow, Princess Ivan, when she first went into season.
What I thought was a pillow turned out to be a shapeless, used nightgown, made of something that aspired to be common housepainter's cheesecloth.
I asked the trustee who was handing out the gowns, a large, menacing woman called, "Big Betty," about the absence of a pillow. She winked at me and slipped me an extra gown, telling me to, "Just wad it up and use it as a pillow, Mama."
She winked, which was the one gesture of warmth I had gleaned that horrid day, and though Alexis my daughter calls me "Mother," I found her term "mama" quite quaint.
After the bedding and linen ordeal, a truly barbaric showering and delousing ritual ensued, but it was far too traumatic to describe.
I was then ushered into a holding tank, where I had to fraternize with prostitutes, drug addicts, thieves, drug peddlers, drunken drivers, tattooed people, and an assortment of the worst haircuts and hideous ensembles I have yet to witness. I won't even comment on the poor grammar, profanity and slang I had to endure.
No one offered me a seat, so I was forced to take my place on the concrete floor.
It was there I met a petite Puerto Rican woman named ChaCha, who claimed to be a dancer, and Shandalier, a very tall African American woman who told me she was in the exotic entertainment industry, but was incarcerated for possession of rock cocaine, which she insisted was planted on her in a frame-up.
Big Betty, the trustee, came by later that day and kindly offered me a candy Lifesaver.
I asked if she had anything like an English toffee or a Coffee Nip, but she hadn't heard of those confections, poor dear. I took the proffered Lifesaver, but it was that dreadful pineapple flavor, so I discretely spat it out.
The prisoners began to whisper about my celebrity, some chuckling menacingly.
Big Betty glared at them and said, "Yo, anyone who dis MStew get a piece of me, you muthafuckas know what I'm saying?" I was not sure what she meant, but I suspect "MStew" referred to me. Last time I heard that horrid moniker was at P Diddy's white party in the Hamptons. It seemed more tolerable after three flutes of Dom.
Eventually, I fell asleep fitfully, leaning against a soiled, graffiti littered wall, flanked by ChaCha and Shandalier.
Their combined, heavily applied fragrances of faux Halston and Charlie served to rather bluntly mask the scents of poor hygiene, human waste, and vomited inexpensive wine that hovered over the room like a polluted cloud.
I dreamed of drinking fresh limeade, in a Smith & Hawken's classic Adirondack chair overlooking the Cape, while my prized peonies waved gently in the sea breeze.
Xanax is... a good thing.
To be continued...

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