Bad Mormon: A Memoir

by Heather Gay

If you can keep her up late enough and keep the drinks stiff enough, you may be lucky enough to witness Meredith Marks descend from her ivory tower and slowly slide into her alter ego: the Dread Pirate Mary Poppins. There is no spoonful of sugar for this sourpuss. Her accent will transport you like a pirate ship to a world where only Dorit Kemsley recognizes its exotic origin.

Why doesn’t MM pretend like she’s in charge of production? Because Meredith Marks doesn’t give a shit. Let the peasants squabble over scraps of bread.

When I heard that Meredith had fucked half of New York, I wasn’t surprised, she doesn’t do anything half-assed, unless it’s her pants size. There are still a few tricks I can learn from this garbage whore.

“Marseille? I love that. You served your mission there? Amazing. I love that.”

Mary M. Cosby had her spot, and she didn’t care who was seated at the table as long as there was a chair for her purse.

“It’s Whitney FUCKING Rose.”

But none of my mom’s three-by-five note cards could have prepared me for a SWAT team dropping down on our party bus in the Beauty Lab parking lot, or Lisa dropping hot-mic moments about her friend of ten years, or Whitney spinning on a pole while she stirs the pot, or Mary spinning an entire season around smelling like hospital.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and Andy Cohen. Amen.