Diary of a Mad Diva (5 page)

Later . . . Just finished watching
Girls
on HBO. If I have to see Lena Dunham’s ass, boobs or tattoos one more time, I swear to God I’m going to convene a tribunal and charge HBO with crimes against humanity. Every time Lena takes the stand it’ll be like Nuremberg with cellulite. Why do homely girls insist on showing off their bodies? Who’s clamoring to look at them? Even Stevie Wonder would say, “Pass.” On tonight’s show she wanted to show us what would be a “television first,” so she hiked up her skirt, squatted and peed next to some train tracks. After seeing this I was hoping we’d see yet another “television first”: Lena Dunham spraying the third rail and going up in flames. I’m glad she’s “free” enough to have her fat ass on display; I just don’t know why she’s not free enough to have a fucking salad once in a while.

FEBRUARY 25

Dear Diary:

Off to the dentist for some major gum work. I won’t be able to talk for two days. I’m despondent. Melissa couldn’t be happier.

FEBRUARY 26

Dear Diary:

I have to find a new dentist. Dr. Golub did a great job; I look good
and
he saved me money (he said my face has been pulled so tight he didn’t need to give me a cleaning; I can floss with the stitches behind my ears!). But he kept calling me “Joanie.” Joanie! Like I’m his friend or his cousin or the local whore who gives him a hand job once a week because our mothers play cards together.

FEBRUARY 27

Dear Diary:

It’s
still
Black History Month. How long do I have to keep out that picture of Martin Luther King, Jr.? And by the way, I liked him; I liked what he stood for. But what a cheaparino. He had some bucks, so why was he staying in Memphis in a $3-a-night motel? If he would’ve spent a little and moved into a Marriott, none of this would’ve happened. Sure, he could’ve died from a heart attack from eating in their food court (which I understand happens once a week on average), but history would have been much different.

What more can I do? And I’m starting to get pissed. Where is Ecru History Month? Naturally Pale Month? What about rosacea? Give them a week. What about vitiligo? The way I see it, they should have two months. I think
every
race, religion and ethnic group should have at least one day in their honor that’s a legal holiday. And because I live in New York City, that means there would be 335 legal holidays . . . which means 335 days of suspended alternate side of the street parking . . . which means I can park anywhere I want to and all those ambulances, fire engines and emergency vehicles can go fuck themselves.

The Jewish guy in the center kept sending everything back. “Is it vegan? Does it have peanuts in it? Is it gluten-free?” What a fuckin’ whiner.

MARCH 1

Dear Diary:

Today is National Pig Day and I completely forgot to call Kevin Federline! I’ll send him a note. Or a bucket of slop. He’s not that fussy.

MARCH 2

Dear Diary:

I’m catching all kinds of shit because on
Fashion Police
I made one teensy little joke about Heidi Klum maybe being a Nazi. I don’t know what the problem is; I was complimenting her. I said, “I haven’t seen anything this hot since the Germans were pushing Jews into the ovens.” You’d think I’d get a thank-you card, not just from Heidi for saying she looked nice, but from all the leftover Nazis for pointing out their ingenuity and stick-to-itiveness. But no, instead I get crap from the Anti-Defamation League for “insulting the Jews.” And if I’d said “gypsies” instead of “Jews,” the Jews would have been mad that I slighted them. This is why nobody likes us.

MARCH 3

Dear Diary:

I’m getting letters from people telling me I should leave Heidi Klum alone because she was “a good Nazi.” What does “a good Nazi” mean? Does it mean they gave the Jews cookie dough to bake with them in the ovens? This makes me so mad that I am definitely thinking of getting a tattoo to remind people about the Holocaust. I want it to say “Six Million Plus One.” The six million will be for the Jews who died in the Holocaust, and the one will be for the time I died on Ed Sullivan.

MARCH 4

Dear Diary:

Now I’m mad at my bank. I called to double-check that the money I’m hiding in the Cayman Islands is still hidden, and all I got was a recorded message: “If you want to check your balance, press one; if you want to transfer funds, press two . . .” How about, “If I want to kill you, I’ll press your head under water for six minutes”? I hate this automated shit. If I ever did get the urge to talk to a machine I’d say “thank you” to my vibrator.

MARCH 5

Dear Diary:

Today is Multiple Personality Day and we’re both so happy! Ever since
Sybil
I’ve been fascinated by people with multiple personality disorder. One minute you’re talking to Janice from Roslyn Heights, and the next minute it’s Cressida, ancient goddess of ground transportation. A couple of years ago my friend, the comedian Roseanne, announced that she had twenty-six different personalities. I was shocked. You’d think at least one of them would’ve gone on a diet.

I don’t believe in multiple personalities; I think it’s just a good way of not paying your bills. “Joan-Thrifty” would never wear $1,500 shoes. “Here, they’re only a little worn, take ’em back.” Yes, “Joan-Whore” slept with all those men, but “Joan-Good” would never go down on a fleet; it might bend her braces and would jeopardize her marriage to that withered, rich old man. “Joan–Child Abuse” might have taken down the horrible boy next door who continually tipped over her garbage, but “Joan-Nice” would have called the boy’s parents and asked them to speak to their pastor, prior to punching little Johnny in the face, breaking his arm and leaving him sightless. (Children need to be taught boundaries.)

MARCH 6

Dear Diary:

I’m tired of dealing with crazies. When did it become my job to manage your mental illness? You wanna be nuts, be nuts. Go put a pencil in your mouth and bark at the fire hydrants, but leave me the fuck out of it.

I was leaving Citarella (where I buy day-old fish to donate to orphanages for children with clogged nasal passages) and some wacko starts following me, saying, “Jesus loves you, Jesus loves you.” I said, “Look! It was just a summer thing. We were young, we were crazy, we got drunk and took a house on the Cape. Now leave me alone!”

And speaking of Christian love, I am so sick of those stupid ads for Christian singles. The ads always have some homely girl saying, “Jesus wants me to get married.” I doubt this. If Jesus wanted her to get married, he would have given her a chin. I have news for you, Gloria Jean: Jesus wants you single and teaching special ed.

MARCH 7

Dear Diary:

Went to see Diana Ross in concert last night. Nine songs, a thousand costume changes and two hours of “Reach out, hold hands; sing with me, sing with me audience, sing with me . . .” Fuck off! For two hundred bucks a ticket, I’m not singing;
you
sing, you skinny bitch. How did the singing suddenly become my job? When I’m in Vegas, I don’t make my audience hold hands and tell the jokes. My proctologist doesn’t ask me to put my fingers up his ass.

After her show I started to go backstage to meet Diana but I just couldn’t. The thought of calling anyone other than Michael Jackson “Miss Ross” depresses me so much. It’s been several years and I still miss my Michael. He was such a help with my grandson, Cooper. Now that he’s gone I have no one to call and tell me how to sweet-talk a young boy into doing almost anything.

Anyway, back to Big D. I remember a night way back in the ’80s when Diana Ross gave a free concert in Central Park in New York. There were 200,000 people there, including me, and five minutes into the show a hurricane hit. Howling winds, driving rain—there was so much flooding it looked like Adele must’ve jumped into a swimming pool. People, dogs, benches were swirling by, and Diana’s standing there onstage, saying, “I’ll save you, I’ll save you . . .” Save us? Who the fuck did she think she was, the Pope? She couldn’t even save Florence Ballard, and she was a Supreme.
*

MARCH 8

Dear Diary:

Picked up Melissa at yoga class. They were doing the Downward-Facing Dog, but when I walked in they switched to the Downward-Facing Pig. On our way home, Melissa and I swung by a fast-food chicken place. When we got to the counter the idiot taking our order says, “We’re out of breasts.” I said, “Who are you? A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon a week before the Oscars?” I was livid. How is it possible that there were no breasts? Did all the chickens have mastectomies? Maybe they’re roosters in drag and this is a gay chicken store and no one told the manager. If you only make one thing, there’s no excuse to run out. For example, I know for a fact that if you swing by George Michael’s pad, he’s
never
out of butt plugs.

MARCH 9

Dear Diary:

I hate people who are lousy at their jobs. If you don’t do something well, then don’t do it. For example, if you weigh four hundred pounds and can’t cross the street without having a triage unit on standby, don’t become a personal trainer. If you stutter, don’t look for work on a suicide hotline (“D-d-d-d-d-on’t j-j-j-j-jump . . .” Too late). And if you give a rotten blow job, then don’t become a hooker. If you can’t suck a nice dick well, then find a job that doesn’t require that skill, like lesbian golfer or Midwestern housewife.

MARCH 10

Dear Diary:

I’ve got to get caller ID. Too many people I don’t know are getting through. Tonight I was lying in bed struggling with a crossword puzzle (four-letter word beginning with “c” for mean, horrible bitch; I wrote small and put in “TYRABANKS”), when the phone rang and I heard bereft sobbing.

So I listened, because at my age my friends’ husbands are dropping faster than Justin Bieber’s balls. And I sighed in all the right places and said “tsk-tsk” and acted like I really cared until she said, “I really be missing my Darnell.” Darnell? I don’t know anyone named Darnell.

From here on in, anyone who calls me better fucking identify themselves, just like they do at AA meetings. Those old winos always announce themselves. Okay, they’re wrong a lot because they’re drunk, but they try. “Hi, I’m the Dionne Quintuplets and I’m an alcoholic . . .” No, you’re not the Dionne Quintuplets. You’re a thirty-eight-year-old carpet salesman from Sheboygan named Edwin, and you have beer foam on your pants.

MARCH 11

Dear Diary:

That call about Darnell got me thinking: Names are crazy; they have no rhyme or reason. I was hoping that maybe Gwyneth Paltrow was starting a trend by naming her child after her favorite food. Her kid’s name is Apple. My niece could be named Peach. And Christina Aguilera’s next kid should be called Potato. I know for a fact Connie Chung’s second-born is named Dog. And Kanye West’s new son is going to be named Pussy in honor of where he came from.

MARCH 13

Dear Diary:

I can’t stand it when an actor wins an Oscar or a Golden Globe and gets to the stage and stutters and mutters and says, “I didn’t prepare anything because I didn’t think I was going to win.” Why the fuck didn’t you prepare anything? You knew you were nominated. You had at least a 20 percent chance of winning, or 40 percent if Amy Adams was in your category. Would it have killed you to make a list of people who helped you make the movie and got you out of rehab/prison so you could make the damned thing, or your mother or your family, or your life partner, Jimmy, who makes your world go round?

I hate people who don’t prepare. Who wants to walk into their accountant’s office during tax season and find him shocked at having to do so much arithmetic? Or go to a proctologist and have him blurt out, horrified, “Oh, wow! Look at all the doody!”?

MARCH 16