Diary of a Mad Diva (18 page)

SEPTEMBER 26

Dear Diary:

I didn’t sleep at all last night, so now I’m tired and crabby and that’s not good. Last time I felt like this I beat Pingpong within an inch of her life. I shouldn’t say that; it’s not completely true. I left her one hand unharmed so she could dust.

SEPTEMBER 27

Dear Diary:

Finally figured out why I’ve been so stressed out and anxious recently. It’s having to face the fact that I probably will not remarry, as all the age-appropriate single men that I know of are getting older or dying off. For example, I’m sad to say, a few months ago, Richard Ramirez—aka the Night Stalker—died in prison and I literally broke down thinking, “There goes a little piece of my past.” In the 1970s, Big Dick, as I called him, terrorized Los Angeles and Southern California with a string of grisly murders of young, semi-attractive women. When they caught him I was both surprised and disappointed. Surprised that he wasn’t even a little more attractive and disappointed because I realized that all the time I’d spent wandering around freeway exit ramps wearing frilly little dresses was for naught.

And now Charles Manson is starting to look his age, which I guess is understandable because he’s seventy-six. Seventy-six! Wow, our little Chuckie, can you believe it? I saw a recent photo of him and I was quite shocked. In spite of his rather unhealthy lifestyle, he’s always managed to stay spry and snappy, and even as his hair took on that sexy salt-and-pepper tone, he somehow maintained his impish manner. But now, all of a sudden, he looks jowly and sallow, and that maniacal stare that became his brand seems to have been lost to both time and a lazy eye. But the worst thing is, his skin is starting to sag and his forehead swastika is now under his nose, and he’s starting to look like Hitler. And as a Jewish girl, I can’t be having any of that.

SEPTEMBER 28

Dear Diary:

Flew back from a one-nighter in Boston and, my luck, I got a
very
pregnant woman sitting next to me, wearing a T-shirt that said, “I’m not fat, I’m pregnant.” I had nothing to say to her, but to be nice I smiled and asked her the usual boring questions like: “Is it your first?” “When are you due?” “Have you picked a name?” Later it occurred to me that maybe there’s a little niche business here: T-shirts for pregnant women that could actually move the conversation along. Wouldn’t it be great if they could get something like, “Shit, the rubber ripped,” or “I was tripping so I left my foam at home,” or “The bastard said he would pull out,” or “I’ll do anything to get on
The Maury Povich Show
.”

Going to the theater tonight with my friend Margie. Not sure what we’re going to see but as long as she’s paying for the tickets it’s fine. I’m happy to go to midget wrestling or a poetry jam or the execution of a retarded inmate, as long as it’s free.

SEPTEMBER 29

Dear Diary:

Last night Margie and I ended up at this silly little Off-Broadway thing called
Naked Boys Singing
. Guess what it was about? You guessed it—naked boys singing songs about being naked boys singing songs. Not exactly
Death of a Salesman
, but in all fairness, I didn’t get to see Willy Loman’s penis swinging in front of me as he called for Biff and Happy.

One weird thing is that all of the men in the cast shaved off their body hair. All of it, I repeat, ALL OF IT. I find this very creepy, but Melissa says it’s the new trend and almost all men are doing it these days. I can’t imagine going out with a man who has no body hair; it would be like dating a giant nine-year-old. And unless you’re Demi Moore, that’s just wrong.

SEPTEMBER 30

Dear Diary:

Thirty days has September,

April, June and November.

All the rest have thirty-one,

Except February, which has twenty-eight except sometimes it has twenty-nine.

So leave me the fuck alone. I’m tired, I’m old and you’re confusing me.

Whoever wrote that can’t write poetry or do math and needs a near-death experience. I’m going to call my friends in the FBI and have them hunt him down and torture him—maybe send him to Attica or Guantánamo or make him go to a live taping of
Dr. Phil
. And I could do this; I have
lots
of friends in the FBI.
*

If you think my tongue is big, you should see the size of the cold sore I gave Robin Thicke!

OCTOBER 1

Dear Diary:

I just got a call from my soon-to-be ex-friend Sylvia. She said, “Guess what? I just found out that on this date in 1962, Johnny Carson hosted his first
Tonight Show
.” I said, “Guess what back? I don’t give a fuck.” Then I hung up and thought of calling my mob friends to see if she could “accidentally go swimming” in the Hudson River with something heavy in her purse, like John Goodman’s lunch. I’m mad because she only told me half the facts. She never said that from then on Johnny was drunk and cheated on all of his wives.

And it’s not just Sylvia who doesn’t give the whole truth or all the facts. It’s a blot on our society that our newspapers and magazines are filled with half facts and they never tell you the whole truths. For example, in April 1863, the first Siamese twins were separated, but it was never reported that in May their mother said, “I never would’ve done it if I knew that I’d have to pay for double
diaper service.
” And
I read that on October 1, 2009, paleontologists discovered the
Ardipithecus ramidus
skeleton, the oldest human fossil ever found. But what they didn’t tell you was that while the fossil did not have a formal name, it answered to “Miss Dyan Cannon.”

Half Facts Plus the Full Truth

HALF FACT:
In 1776, George Washington crossed the Delaware and everyone declared him a hero.

FULL TRUTH:
Fucking idiot was trying to get to Maine.

HALF FACT:
The wettest spot on Earth is the Hawaiian island of Kauai.

FULL TRUTH:
The second wettest spot on Earth is Cloris Leachman’s Spanx.

HALF FACT:
Infant beavers are called kittens.

FULL TRUTH:
Adult beavers are called Mrs. Jodie Foster.

HALF FACT:
An ounce of gold can be stretched into a wire fifty miles long.

FULL TRUTH:
A pound of gold can be stretched into a never-ending alimony hearing.

HALF FACT:
Swans are the only birds with penises.

FULL TRUTH:
Black swans are the only birds with white girlfriends.

HALF FACT:
In 2560 BC, the great pyramids of Giza were finally finished using six thousand Jewish slaves.

FULL TRUTH:
It should have been finished a whole year earlier, but the Jews took the winters off to go to Boca.

HALF FACT:
The world’s largest mammal, the blue whale, is known for weighing up to 150 tons.

FULL TRUTH:
The world’s second largest mammal is known for singing “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”

OCTOBER 2

Dear Diary:

I’m really pissed. I have very little time in New York but I spent the morning at FAO Schwarz looking to buy toys for my lesbian neighbors’ new adopted twin girls. Some woman came over and asked me if I was their great-grandmother.
Great-
grandmother? Do I look that old? I would only accept that if I was from the Ozarks and I started birthin’ babies at nine.
*

This kills me that I look old!!! After all the money I’ve spent on Botox? And it’s been
a lot
of money! Maybe I was wrong to do it; maybe I should have saved it just in case Cooper ever wants gender reassignment surgery.
*
Botox is not cheap and I’ve had a lot. Melissa says I’ve had more needles in me than a pine forest in Maine, and Cooper always adds, “Nana, you’ve been pulled tighter than Rick Santorum’s asshole at a Pride parade.” And that cataract-riddled old crone thought
I
looked like a
great
-grandmother? I was so upset I went out to hire a PI to hunt down the old bag and push her under a Meals on Wheels delivery truck.

OCTOBER 3

Dear Diary:

Just came from visiting my lesbian neighbors. They’re such a nice couple. I think their names are either Bonnie and Sue, or Connie and Rue, or Ellen and Portia, but it doesn’t really matter; I call them Steve and Rocky and they always answer. They’re both good-looking blondes from the Midwest (I think Steve was corn-fed; she’s a rather strapping gal—thirty-six-inch inseam on her Dickies), but their new daughters look like Chairman Mao. They haven’t picked names yet, but after looking at the babies and watching them gobble a lunch of green ferns and bamboo shoots, I suggested Ling Ling and Ding Ding in honor of the giant pandas.

OCTOBER 4

Dear Diary:

This is one embarrassed Jew. I had no idea that Depends leak. And if you don’t believe me, ask the people sitting next to me on the breakfast dais at Temple Israel.

OCTOBER 5

Dear Diary:

I had two extra hours this morning so I laid in bed and tried to catch up on my essential reading. I like to be informed when I go to intellectual dinner parties (instead of being classified as just another pretty Hollywood blonde). The
National Enquirer
’s headline caught my eye immediately: Jessica Simpson says she’s “found love and contentment with her womanly body.” I studied her picture intently but couldn’t tell if hers was a genuine happiness or a medicated happiness over weight gain, or if Jessica’s just given up on dieting and no longer gives a shit. Her hips look so big that I’ll bet she has to let out the shower curtain. Her idea of a wheat dish is Kansas. Anyhow, Jessica was smiling away and looking perfectly happy in her gravy-soaked muumuu that stuck to her now pendulous breasts. This article made me angry. I hate big, fat celebrities who brag to the world, “I’m fat but I’m beautiful just the way I am.” No, you’re not. Everybody—and I mean everybody, including nice people, like Deepak Chopra, Marianne Williamson, and Billy, the forty-six-year-old box boy who lives with his mother down the hall in #16F and still claps every time he makes a boom-boom—makes fun of you. That “I’m beautiful the way I am” kind of exaggeration gets me crazy. It’s simply a justification to not do a sit-up, walk a block or have a salad. (By the way, I don’t do sit-ups or walk a block or eat salads. It’s not because I’m fat or lazy; it’s just that I no longer have to. I have people to do that for me.)

I’m also sick and tired of people who actually buy self-help books and say, “I love me just the way I am.” If you are one of these people, I want you to put
this
book down right now, strip naked and go and look in your mirror. Okay, are you looking? Don’t you dare tell me you’re glad you’re you. If right now, you could trade your you for someone else’s you, whose you would you pick? Here is a simple test that I would like you to take. Which would you prefer: A or B?

I Prefer: