The Andy Cohen Diaries (23 page)

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2014

I need to marry a fireman. That's my new plan.

Tonight was Radzi's book party at her house. I re-met Kristen, the new New York Housewife, whom I hadn't seen since the night we were introduced by Brandi a year ago. She's gonna be great on the show. I tried to prep her husband, Josh, because I think it's going to be a rough season for him. We show him being tough on his wife.

After the party Bruce, Liza, Bryan, and I walked to a Mexican restaurant and that's when I had the moment with a tall fireman in front of that firehouse on Sixth Avenue and Houston. He made a point to tell me he had seen Kelly's show that morning, and we couldn't figure out exactly why he wanted me to know that—I thought he was trying to say he knew who I was because Kelly and I are friends, but the discussion as we walked away veered into the idea that he was trying to subliminally come out to me. At dinner, we debated it and decided it absolutely was the former and he was straight. That being said, I think I need to date a fireman. They have to spend a few nights a week at the firehouse, which is perfect for me. I gotta do my show while he's fighting fires and I think the distance would be good for us, although of course I'd be worried all the time about my man. Maybe I would bake cookies for the guys in the station and tell them about Teresa. I for sure would get involved with the other Firehouse Spouses. I am completely ready to embrace a new community of people.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 2014

This morning Harry Smith interviewed me for
Meet the Press
about the state of gay America. I talked about Michael Sam coming out and called Putin a bastard. I hope they use that part. I didn't tell my mom beforehand; she would have been terrified. Sean is doing
Dancing with the Stars
. I hooked him up with Ricki Lake to give him advice. I want him to go far.

I am 168 pounds.

It was sleepover night! Dave came to the show (Seth Meyers was on) and back at my apartment we did what we spent four years perfecting in college: sipping whiskey, listening to music, talking about the imminent environmental destruction of our planet, and noshing. We lit a fire and cuddled with Wacha as we watched another big snowstorm blanket the city. At 2 a.m. we took Wacha out for a walk (with our cocktails) and it was completely still and quiet. Wacha made the cutest little paw prints in the fresh snow.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2014—NYC–BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

Woke up very hungover after only about five hours of sleep—my first bad hangover of the year. Last night's snowstorm was still raging and meant to go on all day. I taped two shows during the day and was scheduled to fly to the British Virgin Islands at 7 p.m. to spend five days at sea with our regular group (See: Lake Powell), but needless to say, the snow was a factor.

Turns out there was a window of time between six-thirty and seven-thirty where the ten of us could take off before the icy snow started again—we made it. Careening out of Teterboro in the middle of the storm, we felt like we'd escaped. Went to bed at sea.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2014–TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2014—BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS–NYC

Five days of long morning swims in the open blue-green ocean, a rainbow of colors underwater snorkeling, afternoon hikes, tons of laughter, lots of sleep, and probably too much booze and food. I can't not indulge myself on vacation—what is the freaking point of
life
? I finished reading
Sedition
, which I enjoyed. I did no work, but managed to stress myself out about my production company. One night Wendi Murdoch came over for dinner with her party of eleven tech smarties, including Larry Page from Google, the guy who invented kitesurfing, the inventor of the Segway, and the (former?) head of YouTube, who all made us feel kinda dumb. None of them seemed to have much of a clue about pop culture; let me put it this way—they are so busy reinventing the world they didn't even know who Anderson was. We visited Page's private island off Virgin Gorda; as private islands go, it was a winner. (And by that I mean I have never been to a private island before.)

We landed Tuesday midday in another fucking snowstorm. This is torture. But Wacha was very hyper to see me, which made me happy to be home.

Robin Quivers and Patti LaBelle were on my show, and the fire alarm went off as we were close to air, meaning that Miss Patti and Quivers had to walk down six flights of stairs. The ratings for my show are growing but it remains blissfully very homemade; we made air and it was a good one.

At midnight, I had what I hoped was a date at Anfora with the actor I'd met at Bryan's party, but I had initiated getting together so earnestly I was not sure how the invitation was received. But I think it was indeed a date. There was a lot of innocent flirtation and getting-to-know-you, which, frankly, I haven't allowed myself to engage in in longer than I care to admit. The truth is I just haven't been able to get it up (figuratively) for anyone in … forever. But I did with him and that took me by surprise. He inadvertently walked me home, where I turned a peck on the lips under my awning into something more substantial of a goodbye. I went upstairs feeling really tingly and sweet. I sent a text affirming (and seeking his affirmation) that that was really nice and fun. Affirmation received.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 2014

What the hell was going on with the traffic all day? Wacha's hip appears to be better—he is busting out wanting to play—and he was supposed to have an X-ray on the Upper East Side at the Barbara Walters Animal Medical Center, but I spent twenty minutes going three blocks in an Uber and decided to put it off for a week.

I texted my date something innocuous and he waited ninety minutes before texting me back something equally innocuous. I responded immediately and got his reply another two hours later, so Bruce has put me on text lockdown. I am not allowed to contact him until Sunday. (I am gonna get that moved to Saturday, though Bruce doesn't realize it yet.) Whatever winds up happening there, I feel like I broke my date seal, which had been closed up for too long.

On the way home from an hour of heavy weights/low reps with the Ninj, I stopped at the bodega on Bleecker and Hudson, the one that I stop at every day and they act like they've never seen me before. I didn't have enough cash for my bread, flowers, chicken sausage, and eggs (I don't know what's more shocking—that this diet actually has me preparing food in my kitchen, or that those few items amazingly combined to total forty-something dollars), so I removed the chicken sausage but still was a dollar short. I asked if I could bring back the dollar bill tomorrow, and told them that of course I was good for it, I'm there four or five days a week after the gym. It was a little touch-and-go as they hemmed and hawed in front of all the people in line behind me, but they finally said yes. That place is always a little humiliating in some way.

The show was fun and we all stayed and drank after. I got home at 1 a.m. and Lance Bass texted that he was in a cab heading downtown, so I invited him over for a nightcap. He is sweet as ever—we talked dogs for a long time (he agreed that Wacha is perfect), and I got some good Lou Pearlman stories out of him.

Maybe because of my text lockdown with the actor, I've remembered my future husband on the tenth floor. He disappeared again! I need to tell Surfin to let me know the next time he's in town. Or at least his full name so I can find him online.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2014

Woke up hungover, but it was sunny and warmish for the first time this year so I took Wacha out for a long walk and we sat in the sun on a bench in front of Bonsignour for an hour. Wacha sat proudly (guarding me?) and I felt like I hadn't a care in the world. Surfin had the day off, so I will have to wait to find out about my backup husband. (The actor left for London today, incidentally.)

I spent the afternoon at Bravo cleaning out my football field full of shit. Who do I think I am, a future President who will one day have his every doodle and paper housed in a museum somewhere? And now I'm obsessed with recycling everything even though it's impossible. I just don't know where this crap (old iPod docking stations, batteries, chargers)
goes to die
??? What happened to all the beepers we carried in the nineties? Are they on a barge somewhere?

Met Amanda at
The Glass Menagerie
and it was an incredible production—intense, powerful, and exhausting. OK, it's not like I was
in
it or anything. We went backstage after to congratulate Zach Quinto and he was lovely. (Diane Lane—looking great—was back there to see Cherry Jones.) I really did wait till the last minute to see him; it closes Sunday. I hadn't seen Amanda since early January, so dinner at Joe Allen (Zach and Joe Machota were at the next table, funny!) was like an intense therapy catch-up session. At one point near the beginning she even said, “Any concerns?” which sounded like something she would say to her patient. It ended up being a good session for both of us. I love giving advice to shrinks.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2014—NYC–ST. LOUIS

Wacha was so cute this morning, and there's no way he did not know I was leaving him again to head to St. Louis to host the Beggin' Pet Parade at the St. Louis Mardi Gras. (I have to assume Dame Judi Dench turned them down this year, because it's a very prestigious invite, as one can imagine by the title.) He's starting to notice the luggage and figure out my packing rhythms.

I got to my parents' and immediately worked out with a trainer I use when I'm home, who charges so little (sixty bucks) that I almost feel like
I'm
ripping
him
off. I am used to getting raped up the ass by New York City trainers, I guess. We went to Pastoria for dinner. But not before a chorus of hysterical “We will never GET INTO Pastoria! It WON'T HAPPEN!” from my folks. We are in Clayton, Missouri, I tried to tell them. Getting into a restaurant is, in my mind, well within the realm of attainability. Shockingly,
we got in
. And the place was empty by eight forty-five. I hired a driver (so I could drink) and met Kari at a new place called Planter's House, which we loved. As we were sitting there I said, “Man, would it be great if Jake's Leg was playing tonight in St. Louis,” so I Googled them and sure enough they were playing in Ballwin, which is all the way in West County but I was at that point a man on a mission to hear my favorite Grateful Dead cover band from high school with my classic friend from high school. The driver had no idea where he was going, I don't know where the hell he was from but it was not St. Louis, so it was us telling him how to get there. Jake's Leg were so great and it felt free and easy, dancing to Dead music. I felt hashtag blessed.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2014—ST. LOUIS

I boxed through a hangover this morning at this gym next door to where my parents live. The day's dominant conversation (there always is one topic a day in my family) revolved around the Joe's Stone Crab Dinner we were going to
en famille
at Westwood, which is my brother-in-law's country club that apparently does not allow jeans in their main dining room. All I brought home were jeans, so this became a lightning rod, made worse by my not-so-secret desire to get kicked out of the club—in front of all the fancy St. Louis Jews—for wearing said jeans. Rob, whose membership I would be putting in peril, did not wish for me to get kicked out of his club, and texted asking how dark the jeans were and for as many details as I could provide. As we were getting ready, my outfit was under a new layer of intense scrutiny, this time from my mother, who deemed my Ralph Lauren Olympic Skiing Sweater (my friends at Ralph Lauren had sent a turtleneck, alternate version of the Christmas sweater) “too loud” for the venue and demanded a costume change. (She was wrong, but I crumbled under the pressure and complied.) I sadly did not get kicked out of the club, but we ate buckets of stone crabs flown in from Joe's with the hoi polloi of St. Louis County, half of whom are somehow my relatives. The evening could also be viewed as an informative exploration of innovations in midwestern plastic surgery techniques.

After dinner I went with the cute guard at the St. Louis Zoo Penguin House I met a few years ago to some gay bar that was fairly empty but seemed like it would be fun if it ever filled up, which it didn't.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 2014—ST. LOUIS–NYC

The taxing responsibilities of Grand Marshal of the Beggin' Pet Parade at the St. Louis Mardi Gras consisted of waving at thousands of dogs forced to wear beads and costumes by their (drunk?) owners. It was a scream. If I could ride at the front of a pet parade once a month, I wouldn't be unhappy. Em, Rob, and Abby came and had a ball. Having Abby there kicked it up a few notches in the fun department. She's seven, so probably the bull's-eye age for the event.

After being forced by Bruce to wait five days, I texted the actor today. It was not completely satisfying but I did get a text right back, so maybe the plan worked. I am allowed to ask for another date tomorrow, per Bruce. In the meantime, I got a Facebook message from someone I met at my show two weeks ago, talking about getting a drink. The next phase in making a plan with me is a knockout round for some people, because it's me saying, “OK, is it possible to meet me at midnight after my show?” Normal people with actual jobs don't love the idea of waiting until late night for get-to-know-you cocktails, but before my show never works and I keep leaving town on weekends, so this seems like my best option. He, though, said he's a late-night guy so he's up for it.

I flew back in time for the show. My hair looked so good on the plane I didn't want to get off. It looked less good for the show, but RuPaul's great energy made everything better. Met John Mayer for a few drinks at the Greenwich Hotel at midnight and stayed up entirely too late going deep. He and Katy Perry broke up. (Again.)