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This week, Carole Radziwill kept her reputation alive as probably the best blogger of any of the Housewives with her finale blog, and unbeknownst to us, there was a surprise at the end of said screed: She dropped an exclusive excerpt from her upcoming book, The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating. The book itself isn't out just yet, but for the meantime, put on your reading glasses and enjoy a little Carole prose on this (soggy in New York) Tuesday.
Below Is an Excerpt From The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating:
They were just starting, Claire and Dr. Singh; they’d just finished shifting in chairs and clearing their throats, and were on Claire’s second question.
“So is there any evidence, then, that the size of the penis matters, reproductively speaking?”
Just as a hint of a smile crossed her face, Claire’s cell phone began to buzz. She’d set it to “vibrate” and now it lurched noisily across the desk.
“I’m sorry, just ignore it,” she said, and made a gesture with her hand to mean “go on.”
“Before we get too far,” said Singh, “let’s do this.” He was holding a measuring tape. He jumped up, then motioned for Claire to stand so he might measure and calculate her own ratio, her own potential for reproduction.
“I’ve studied every Playboy centerfold since 1952,” he said, with his arms around Claire’s waist, his head down. He mumbled a number and jotted it on his notepad. “And though the bunnies have gotten thinner” -- he paused as if about to reveal a great secret -- “their hip-to-waist ratios have remained the same!”
A stack of transparencies lay on his desk; anatomically correct line drawings of well-ratioed women: Eva Mendes, Marilyn Monroe, Raquel Welch. He showed Claire, laying the drawings one over the other, how the shapes were different but the ratios stayed in line.
“Watch this,” he said, putting a transparency of Kate Moss over Scarlett Johansson. “Hmm? Surprised?”
“Well, Kate’s skinnier, and her breasts…”
“But that’s it!” Singh shrieked, delighted. “It’s not the breasts!” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “It is strictly the proportion of the hip to the waist. It signals health and fertility. This is the true essence of desire.”
Claire looked down at her own small breasts. She wanted to believe him. She wondered if there was a Mrs. Singh, and if so, what size her breasts were. He jotted her measurements on a notepad and did the math. “Ha! Point seven five,” he said, nodding in approval. “Almost perfect.”
The buzzing continued, persistent. Claire’s phone lurched forward, then stopped, then lurched again. Dr. Singh took in the spectacle.
“We should take a short break,” he said.
Claire agreed, and while Singh ruffled papers she punched in the number for voicemail and pressed “one” to play her messages. There were four:
The first was a policeman in a somber tone: “Mrs. Byrne, this is Officer Callan from the 19th precinct. I need you to contact me immediately, your husband…there’s been an accident.” The second was Richard, who also asked her to call back, and spoke in a suspiciously measured tone. The third was Michael, Claire’s close friend and Charlie’s longtime assistant, who just said, “Honey. I’m sorry. Oh fuck.”
Sasha was fourth. She was sobbing and Claire could hear ice clinking glass. “Jesus, Claire, why aren’t you answering your phone? They dropped a goddamn Giacometti on Charlie, turn the TV on! He’s dead! Oh God. . .Richard said he didn’t suffer. Call me.”
Claire set her phone on the desk and looked at Singh shuffling paper stacks. She ran a couple of versions through her head, then settled on this: “My husband, I think, is dead.” She looked out the window and her gaze fell on an oak tree.
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