YAKOV : Russian form of "Jacob", meaning "supplanter"
to replace, to take the place of, to supersede
to uproot, to remove violently*

Madonna, Cher, Pocohontas, Yakov. One sobriquet alone suffices to conjure up a unique personality, one so original, that any additional information would only dilute its power.

Imagine, if you will, either Matt Dillon, or Mark Messier of the New York Rangers, depending on who you think is cuter. Now create a more compact version with a Russian accent, a Macintosh computer, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Dress him in a black T-shirt, black Levi's, and black Converse All-Stars. Good. Now (this is the most important part) shave his head completely bald.

You now have a picture of Yakov. But perhaps not only of Yakov.

We entered into a May-December relationship. I played the part of a bleak December and he was a lovely May morning. Among other disparities, there was the trichophobia.

Trichophobia is a fear of hair. This malady is distinguished by a fear of lint, fuzz, towels, eyelashes, and aggressive behavior toward felines. I gave the cats to my ex-husband, moved all of my clothing into the living room and prepared for cohabitation.

We are both graphic designers. Well, I was one before Yakov undid me. The disparity in our personal net worth (due, no doubt, to mere differences of age, experience, intelligence and talent) was such that I decided, albeit subconsciously, to devote the twelve hours a day that I had selfishly reserved for my own career entirely to Yakov's. This included a campaign of public relations that would make Michael Ovitz look like a Vermont housewife, and resulted in several magazine articles, a major book deal, and an impressive client roster that oddly resembled my own.

At one juncture, I was concerned that lending him two thousand dollars to start his art magazine, pay his rent, and things like that might "damage our relationship" if this debt went unpaid. My then-psychiatrist had an interesting idea. Why not just give him the money? After a year and a half of qualified bliss, we broke up.

I had the funny feeling that he was, um, using me.

I spent that summer recuperating, and ostensibly painting, in a charming seaside community we'll call the mosquito preserve. Of my two remaining friends (those that had not been, by this time, co-opted for commercial purposes by Yakov) both remarked on my surprising and weirdly domestic variation on the artist theme. The car was painted silver, the mailbox blue, the bathroom, kitchen and front porch were likewise festooned with a daub of the original Rosenwald, but the canvases were notably empty. And I was only renting for one summer.