nan Darien

Mad about that spirit world! Nan crosses over into the paranormal with psychic John Edward

to communicate with the dead; I don’t want to talk to most/ living people. But when a producer from that new psychic talk show, Crossing Over with John Edward, called me to be a guest, I decided that this might be a rare opportunity to contact my childhood horse, Lavender, who was crushed by a meteorite when I was 17. Oh, Lavvie ... I think of you often, darling; can you hear me? You were an intriguing sex substitute all those years ...

A very peppy “segment producer” called me, saying Jane Seymour and Sebastian Bach have “guested” on the show; I was impressed, thinking she meant Jane Seymour as in Henry VIII’s third wife, and Sebastian Bach the composer, but she explained, no, these are living people, the first an actress on a show called Prairie Gynecologist and the latter a kind of rock star. I said, “Great, whatever, allons-y. ” I didn’t tell her about Lavender, though; I thought, Let’s let Mr. Long Island Gurdjieff figure that one out for himself.

Came the day. I wore Givenchy. I looked divine; as my upholsterer, Ben, would say, “Ten pounds of gorgeous in a five-pound bag.” I was feeling slightly restless, though; I zipped over to Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle and quaffed a few stingers, just to take the edge off. Then I cabbed over to the studio in Midtown. I thought I’d taken care of my nerves, but while waiting in the greenroom I spilled an enormous platter of melon balls down my front, causing my dress—fortunately, melon-hued—to stiffen and shrink into a sort of fructose-encrusted body truss: slightly upsetting, and of much interest to the studio’s large community

of houseflies. Worse, there was no time to change: the stage manager grabbed my arm and took me to the set.

I sat in a chair. The cameras rolled. Edward frowned at the floor, lost in thought, picking up energy. Suddenly, Edward’s left leg started twitching, and I thought, That’s Lavvie, that’s Lawie’s gait—Lavvie’s canter must have a power from beyond the grave. As slow as molasses, Edward tilted his head up at me, gave me an absolutely piercing gaze, and screamed, “I’m sensing that you’ve spilled melon all down the front of your dress!” Oh my God, I thought, this is possibly the worst moment of my life. I would like to crawl under the crust of the earth. “You’ve spilled melon all down your front, and now I see you at a dry cleaner’s ... I see the dry cleaner shaking his head nooooo ... I see the words ‘fructose-encrusted body truss’ ... I see a raging alcoholism that cries out for treatment. ”

Well, my dear, to say that I was mortified would be an understatement. You know, it has long been my ambition—I may have mentioned this before—to be the next Brooke Astor; this kind of exposure cannot be said to help me. Apparently when Edward made an appearance on Larry King Live two years ago, the volume of calls generated by the appearance blew out the show’s switchboard. I didn’t blow out any switchboard; however, the New York Post put me on their cover—they Photoshopped a seminude picture of me onto a horse, and then topped it off with the honkingly huge headline LADY CASABA!

I have seen the future, and it is melon-y.