June, for me, is a month loaded with birthdays. I’ve spent more time this month shopping for cards than I have under the knife, so when I see a greeting card that makes me smile, I grab it and if I see a greeting card that actually makes me laugh, I buy every one of them. I truly think, and I say this with all modesty, that I have become an expert on which cards to send (this is easy), but also (and this is a lot harder) on what cards you probably shouldn’t send.

For example:

Don’t send any card with a cat on it to a single woman over a certain age because it will just remind her that the only baby she’ll probably ever have is named Mittens.

Don’t - if you are giving an old person a birthday cake with the right amount of lit candles - give them a card without the number of the Fire Department on it.

Don’t give a homeless person one of those cards with quarters in it because it will just bump them into a higher tax bracket.

Don’t, when celebrating an epileptic’s birthday, give them a  pop-up card, unless you’ve got some paint that needs shaking.

And last of all, don’t give Granny a scratch and sniff card that smells like prunes or she’ll end up spending her special day on the changing table.

I am in London this week doing television and seeing friends and as I look around I am once again reminded that there are a lot of differences between English and American people.

The English are so much more formal and proper than we are. When making love they always ask, “Have you arrived”?

In the worst traffic jams they never yell at each other, they just sit quietly and flip themselves the bird.

But most of all I find that the biggest difference is that the English actually give a s*#t about the Beckhams.

 I co-headlined at Humphrey’s by the Bay in San Diego with my old friend Don Rickles on Friday night. Don and I go back for years and I just adore him. Many times while sitting around backstage, Don has told me the most hilarious stories abut his adventures in the business with such greats as Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Bob Newhart, etc., etc., etc.

Well guess what? Don has written a book filled with these anecdotes and it has hit the New York Times Best Seller List!

He was so excited and happy and, despite my jealous nature, I am truly delighted for him.

 
Want to know what my favorite thing about playing with Don is? It’s that suddenly I’m the nice one!!!

I love crime stories. I especially love forensics, so I am one of those people who live for shows like Cold Case Files and I will camp out in front of Borders for the latest true-crime book by Ann Rule.

The Menendez Brothers’, O.J. Simpson’s, Robert Blake’s and Phil Spector’s trials are my idea of good television. And, probably unlike you, I would love to serve on a jury.

I also harbor a secret wish to be in the witness protection program. Not only would I enjoy the excitement of living on the lamb, but the witness protection program offers free – do you hear me -free plastic surgery.

I never thought I’d say this, but I love Michael Moore’s new movie.

Over the years I’ve found him to be a bit pompous and preachy, but I went to a screening of his new movie Sicko and it is spot on and wonderful!

It’s a real blast at our pathetic healthcare system and evil insurance companies that are solely out for profit.

Go see it and then sit down and write to your congressmen and senators (like that’s going to help!)

Something must be done. 

I was in Toronto this past weekend selling my jewelry.  If you’ve never been there, Canada is one of the most beautiful countries in the world and is filled with some of the most polite and thoughtful people you would ever want to meet. So what’s not to like?

The exchange rate.

In the old days it was terrific going to Toronto because our dollar was so strong. I could actually get an hour and a half massage for $70.00! But now, sadly, the U.S. and Canadian Dollars are neck and neck and THAT is rubbing me the wrong way - even if the masseuse isn’t.

With the state of the dollar, soon we’ll be the ones sneaking across the Rio Grande to find a better life in Mexico.

I mentioned my upcoming run at the Magic Theatre in San Francisco (June 16th blog) which is happening from August 16th to September 2nd and I just have to tell you how excited I am about hitting the boards again, as one of my greatest joys—besides screaming at complete strangers on the street—is being on stage.

The play is about an incident that took place backstage at one of the Oscar pre-shows and I have spent the last four years writing it. I will be playing myself which will be a nice change of pace because I am usually played by a man.

Being on a stage is sooo exciting; working with the other actors, rehearsing lines, trying on costumes, blocking, watching the set go up and collaborating with the director. You may not believe this, but I am very professional and I take stage direction well, especially “Sit”, “Fetch” and “Heel.”

I am working diligently on final edits to the script and am madly reading lines so that I can learn a part I’ve been playing since Moses was a teenager. I do consider myself a fine actress. Do you know how many orgasms I’ve faked in my life?

All of you from the Bay Area had better come out to see me – straight people too.                  

I went to San Francisco last week to look at the space at the Magic Theatre where I will be premiering my one-woman show (which will run from August 16 – September 2 to thunderous applause and standing ovations) * 

While I was there I also looked at the hotel suite where I will be living during this time. The last people to stay there were a well-known, but shall remain nameless, lesbian couple.

Gay men are known for their chic and style, so they make wonderful decorators, but lesbians!?! Have you ever walked into a place and thought that it had already been blown up by terrorists? Well this place looked as though it had been attacked by Lesbollah.

The sofa and chairs had hairy legs and, of course, the rug had teeth marks. The mini-bar was stocked with Red Bull Dyke and the room service menu offered an all you can eat buffet, but it wasn’t for me as I don’t eat cat.

The worst was the bed.  One look and I knew two things: 1. Even Clinton wouldn’t make out in it and 2. Why man had invented fire.

 * or baskets of ripe tomatoes being hurled at the stage.

I went to the doctor today for a CT scan and some blood work and it turned into a true comedy of errors. The nurse who I usually deal with was not there, but a very nice one came to escort me to the testing area and get me into the scanner.

Luckily for me it was an open CT scanner because I do NOT do well when they put me inside those terrible closed machines. I’ve been known to get claustrophobic in the middle of the Great Plains.

She put a Nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue, so I kept waiting for them to shake me till I exploded. Instead she told me that as part of the test I would have to hold my breath and asked me if I wanted to practice? I told her that there was no need to practice. At this age, the one thing I am truly good at is not breathing.

The Nitroglycerin worked its way through my whole system and made me feel very hot on the inside which reminded me of some grand old times, like during Fleet Week, plus it was the closest I’ve been to menopause in years.

After the CT scan she took me to a technician to draw some blood. I must say that I do not do well when they are taking my blood. First of all, do you know how many victims I have had to stalk during the full moon to get that blood?

Also I am one of those people where the nurse, “can’t find the vein” and I have walked out of labs looking like a heroin addict. After the technician drew the blood, she handed me my blood sample and said, “You’re done.” No one told me where to go or what to do next, so I came home.

The vial is now sitting in my fridge so, if no one picks it up in the next few hours, I am going to pour a little vodka in it, throw in some horseradish, add a stalk of celery and…Yum! Yum!

How was your weekend? Mine was perfect. I left NY Friday to celebrate the wedding of the child of a dear friend of mine.  I flew up to Newport, Rhode Island in a friend’s private plane (and not one of those cheesy, small, private planes that Pretend Billionaires have that only hold ten rich people). This jobbie held fourteen richies, two Labrador Retrievers and lots of English staff.

I stayed at a friend of a friend’s house that used to belong to Edith Wharton and I spent Friday afternoon sitting on their terrace, shaking my fist at tourists who, because of my age, actually thought I was Edie W.

Friday night was a clam bake that everyone seemed to enjoy (except for the poor clams). The bride and groom looked really happy, which means they’d already started returning their gifts for credits and were thinking about their future home that will NOT include a Mother in Law suite.

The next day – the Wedding Day – I was free during the afternoon and I spent it having lunch in one of those great, old Newport houses. My host had taste and money and everything was right out of a magazine. Did you know you can grow geranium trees? Did you know that pasta tastes better off of a gold fork? Did you know its fun to be one of six people eating in a dining room that was built to chow sixty?

Saturday night was the wedding, which was held at Marble House, an old Vanderbilt mansion, and everything went off without a hitch: no drunks, no heart attacks, no family feuds bubbling up. Speeches were short and the bride’s mother wrote a poem for the occasion that actually rhymed!

The bridesmaids’ dresses were pretty, the bride was truly glowing (even though she is NOT pregnant) and the groom seemed truly in love. Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.

The only negative thing was that most of the presents had been sent ahead, so there was no way that I could add my name to a gift card. Now I actually have to go out and buy something! I wonder if they would like a 14 x 18 autographed photo of Aunt Joanie suitable for framing?

I will be doing one of my favorite things tomorrow and I want you to watch!

No, not that.

If you can get your filthy minds out of the gutter and find ABC on the dial, then watch while I visit my darling friends Kelly Ripa and Regis Philbin on Live! at 9:00am.

Being single sucks. When you are young, you think you know how your life is going to turn out, but it simply isn’t so, my darlings. One day you wake up, roll over and look at the snoring figure on the other side of your bed and go crazy because it’s not a husband next to you, it’s your dog! How depressing is that!?!

So you get out of bed, run a comb through your hair, throw on some lipstick and beg every friend you have that knows a guy under the age of 300 to fix you up.

That’s what I did and, sad to say, at this age, I’m back out there and I’m dating. And it is so depressing. If you could see what turns up at my door you’d be sending me “With Deepest Sympathy” cards. These guys fall into one of three categories: dying, dottie or dead.

Old men are just no fun. They are slow, set in their ways and a bit leaky (one guy went to the bathroom so many times on our first date that he came down with a bad case of “Flusher’s Elbow”). And they have no sense of humor. Two nights ago I went out to dinner with a man and when I asked the waiter, “What wine goes with Liver Pills?” he got up and left.

Sex, or whatever you’d like to call it, with these guys is just horrible. I have discovered that sometimes the only reason they ask to stay over at my place is because they can’t remember where they live. Some of these gummers, however, think they are real Casanova’s. The other night one of them grabbed me and blew in my ear, which actually could have been kind of sexy, if it hadn’t been his last breath.

I don’t know what events you have planned for the summer, but I have one event on the books that is making me wish that I had scheduled a root canal instead. I am hosting my family’s reunion this month and my relatives are coming out in full-force.

It’s not that I hate my relations, I truly love them individually, but put them all into one room and I begin to rethink my feelings about Hitler.

Why am I putting myself through this, you ask? For one thing, I am an emotional masochist and for another, guilt works well on me. To tell you the truth, hosting a family reunion has its positive aspects too (especially if you’re Margaret Mead and have a lucrative book deal).

For one thing, it’s fun to scare the younger relatives by saying, “You are the spitting image of me when I was your age!”

And for another, I enjoy playing a game that I like to call, “You’re Not In My Will”.  I say this quietly to each and every one of them and then watch to see which ones still kiss me goodbye.

I just adore my grandson, Cooper, and I can’t wait to get out to California this week to see him. Melissa complains that I spoil him, but she’s just jealous because when she was young I didn’t spoil her. I didn’t even let her have her own room. She spent the first eight years of her life living in our kitchen closet (the family referred to the broom as Melissa’s “Roomie.”).

Melissa says that my need to spoil Cooper is about me giving him all of the things I wanted when I was a girl, but didn’t have. This is totally ridiculous; I mean what would he want with breasts and a mink coat?

Anyway, despite what Melissa says, Cooper and I have fully embraced spoiling. I truly don’t think it’s fair for me to show up every couple of weeks with a new face and not bring him anything.

He loves getting new toys and I keep hoping that he’ll remember how generous Grandma was, so he won’t pull the plug when I’m 90.  Because of this, I am constantly on the look-out to find toys that will remind him of me.

Recently I found something that is absolutely perfect! It’s an Osteoporosis action figure, “Look, Grandma, her fingers really snap!”

Today is my birthday, but the tune in my head is not "Happy Birthday,"

       it is "Nearer My God to Thee."

Comments and responses exceprted from my "Stay Tuned for New News" blog.

Anda Middleton wrote: joan honey, it sucks, there's tons of women like lisa rinna, there's only one joan rivers.

Dear Anda - Thank you, but I must tell you that you are wrong.  With all my extra skin lying around in plastic surgeon's offices, there are lots of Joan Rivers. --xxx Joan

Dave wrote: Joan, you'll be missed on the carpet. BTW - I still think you're hot....(Yes, I have perfect vision).

If you think I'm hot, have I got a mummy for you! --xxx Joan

Ringo wrote: Hate to see ya leave sweetheart.  Will follow wherever you go...

Thanks, Ringo.  I'll let you and Paul know where Melissa and I land, knock on wood--and I don't mean Heather's leg. -- xxx Joan

Higgledy Piggledy wrote: Have you given any more thought to posing nude in Playboy?

I keep trying, but the camera lenses just can't take all the hotness. --xxx Joan

Everybody used to say that they loved fat people, and maybe they did, but I tended to think that was a lie. Santa is fat and nobody wants to f*#k him.

Now they’re saying that no one loves fat people and, even worse, they are putting down fat kids. Recently Time Magazine devoted a huge section to the shame associated with childhood obesity.

This really annoys me and I think most of this is a big, fat tempest in a teapot.

Overweight kids are important. For example, with the current adoption fever that is sweeping Hollywood, chubby stars like Kirstie Alley could surround themselves with a lot of obese orphans. This will not only make them look charitable, but also thinner. Someone told me that Alec Baldwin’s kid is a porker, so his calling her a “little pig” was nothing more than a sign of affection.

Plus just think if fat kids everywhere start to lose weight how would we answer that age old question, “What do I do with this leftover bacon grease?” And there wouldn’t be anybody left at whom you could scream, “Fatty, Fatty, two-by-four, couldn’t get through the bathroom door.”

People believe that fat kids cost a family more money than thin kids, but this just isn’t so. There is no reason to spend thousands of dollars taking a fat kid to Disneyworld when, in reality, their favorite trip is to the fridge. And when you are down in Florida, why spend good money on sunblock when “Tubby” can just cast his shadow on you while you’re enjoying the beach?

So I’d say hurray for fat kids – but I can’t because my mouth is full.

Comments and responses excerpted from my  "Happy (Belated) Easter" blog.

Bradley wrote: Oh, my God, it's "Fatal Attraction" all over again...great movie!  Why the hate for the "bunny"...unless you're Hugh H. and turned down because you smell like "old man."

What was so terrible about "Fatal Attraction?" At least they got a home cooked meal.--xxx Joan

Mr. Bill wrote: How...festive?  Is it any wonder that "Fatal Atraction" hasn't become an Easter tradition in the spirit of "Christmas Story" and "It's a Wonderful Life?"

People don't understand, the moral behind "Fatal Attraction" is that the way to a man's heart is through his daughter's rabbit.  I tried that with somebody's Chihuahua, but it didn't work.  Who knew that he hated Mexican food?--xxx Joan

Jeff wrote: That reminds me of a movie about a rabbit that got tested then died. Or maybe it was the movie that died.  I don't really know I never saw it just heard about it. Stupid rabbits anway, no wonder you hate them Joan.

You are obviously referring to "Rabbit Test" which is truly one of the great movies of our generation, right up there with "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes" and "The Lonely Lady."--xxx Joan

Pickin' and grinnin' wrote: Fry the little rascal in some olive oil and butter.  If he is two years old, then boil him.  Make some biscuits and gravy, too.  What is Easter without fresh rabbit, biscuits and gravy?

You are so right...just another Sunday. --xxx Joan

As I said in my blog on Wednesday, I was interviewed by New York Magazine about my philosophy of life because they believe that the older people become the more wisdom they amass and I guess this is good news about aging. The bad news is that whatever wisdom old people have accumulated concerning aging they’ve forgotten.

Getting older does not make you smarter and furthermore I believe that smarts are regional anyway as I have found that whatever wisdom worked for me in New York doesn’t do a damned thing for me in Los Angeles.

In New York, whenever a woman reads she is called intelligent

while in Los Angeles if a woman reads she is called ugly.

Luckily for the reporter, I came up with two bits of wisdom that I think are universal: Never forget that sex is totally overrated, it got Anna Nicole Smith nothing besides an elaborate, but tasteless funeral. And people who want to commit suicide and then jump from the ground floor are not serious about it.

I hosted a bridal tea for the daughter-in-law-to-be of a very good friend of mine and a lot of very fancy New York society ladies showed up. I served a really great, traditional, English tea!

There were finger sandwiches, cakes, cookies, scones with clotted cream and jam, pastries and petit fours.

They ate NOTHING. To borrow a line from Erma Bombeck, it was like hosting a famine. It was hilarious to watch them put food on their plates and then just push it around. Some ladies’ plates looked like they had more on them when they were finished than when they got started.

After they had all left, I sat there stuffing myself on the abundant leftovers and told myself they were all too thin.

When the first guest had arrived, I’d mistaken her for an umbrella and stuck her in my hall closet.  (She later told me that my closet was twice the size of her studio apartment and she’d be willing to pay me $1,800 a month to take over the lease).

Another guest kept sliding through the open toes on her shoes. My dogs tried to bury one of my guests in the flower beds on my terrace.

I am thinking about putting together a charity rock concert to help these overly lean women. I think that if the world saw just how skinny and malnourished they are that even Ethiopia would send care packages.