The Funny Thing Is... (2 page)

For the first twenty minutes we ate in silence, with the exception of the dry cleaner remarking, “This gazpacho is heavenly.” He pronounced “gazpacho” with a soft “g,” (“jazpacho”), not a hard “g,” the way it should be pronounced. I don’t care where you’re from (and I’m pretty sure he was from Canada), there’s no reason you can’t get it right.

Every time he said it (I think nine times in twenty minutes), I thought Eminem was going to explode. It was almost as if the dry cleaner was mocking Em’s gazpacho—and it’s his special recipe! He brings it every week. After the third or fourth time the dry cleaner said “jazpacho,” I said, “It’s good gazpacho” saying it correctly with the hard “g,” hoping he’d realize his stupid mistake, but he just kept on as if/was saying it wrong. Even Donatella Versace says it right and she says everything wrong.

Well, when conversation finally began to flow, it was not pleasant. It started harmlessly enough with Siegfried or Roy asking why Paula hangs out with her dry cleaner. Were they friends beforehand and now he just happens to dry-clean her clothes? Did they start chatting when she went to pick up her “outfits,” as he called them? And if so, why wouldn’t her assistant pick up her “outfits”? Paula just stared at Siegfried or Roy with this kind of knowing smile, like she was “onto him”—you know, the way Paula does. Well, this unnerved everyone and I think the dry cleaner got a little defensive on Paula’s behalf. He started questioning Siegfried or Roy on his own “outfits” and from there it led to why Tara Lipinski was wearing her “outfit.” Tara didn’t understand what he was talking about. It’s all she ever wears.

The whole thing escalated into someone (I suspect it was the silent but deadly Paula) throwing a pork chop, which missed everyone at our table but flew clear into the other room, hitting Gloria Steinem in the eye. She screamed out, “Okay, Eminem, you misogynist,” assuming it was him. I honestly can’t say who it really was because I was getting another helping of creamed corn when it all happened. Anyway, all hell broke loose and it ended with everyone leaving at once.

In all the confusion Ed Begley Jr. backed his electric car into Donatella Versace’s Bentley. (Those electric cars sure can build up speed!) It did some damage, but not as much as Eminem driving over my lawn in his LeMans and plowing down my newly planted rose garden. The dry cleaner was at Siegfried or Roy’s car exchanging cleaning tips and I was left with a mess to clean up. Well, my housekeeper was—but still!

Tara Lipinski called this morning to see if she had left her purse. I told her she hadn’t come with a purse, and she argued she had indeed come with a purse. I said, “No, you didn’t. We all commented on your skating attire like you were getting ready to perform or something, remember?”

She said, “Oh, is that what you meant by you don’t have a rink? I’m sorry I answered so rudely. I didn’t get the joke. Everyone always wants me to skate for them, so I just assumed you were expecting me to skate.”

I said, “No, it was a joke.”

She said, “Oh…” and laughed hysterically until she started choking and whispered she had to go and hung up.

A few minutes later I found a purse in my kitchen and felt so bad that I had been so adamant about her not having brought one. I opened it, hoping to find a phone number for her but when I found the driver’s license it was Gloria Steinem’s—only her real name is Debbie! Oh, the secrets we keep…

Next Sunday should be interesting.

Sometimes, when I’m trying to get dressed, I find myself just staring at my clothes for an hour. I have not a clue as to what I should put on. It is so hard to decide what to wear. And it got me thinking:
That’s why prison wouldn’t be so bad
.

Sometimes I don’t want to be a grown-up. I don’t want to have too many obligations. I don’t want responsibilities or deadlines. In prison, I wouldn’t have to make any decisions. Life would be so simple.

It’s true that the beds don’t look very comfortable and they only have those wool blankets. They’re itchy. Oh, and the lack of privacy with the bathroom situation? I’d hate that. Then again, they do have TV and a gym. I’d be in excellent shape, probably better than the time I trained for a marathon. They have a fantastic physical-conditioning area and it’s outdoors!

How refreshing. They call it the “exercise yard,” a yard dedicated to getting fit. You always hear that people in prison are really muscular, but I don’t think I’d use the exercise yard for that. I’d probably just want to work on my abs and my cardiovascular. You probably have to bring your own towel and workout gloves, but that’s the price you pay for absolutely no responsibility.

There is also the fact that the food is free and I always think free food tastes the best. Like when you go to those hotel manager’s receptions. Even though the food is
taquitos
and Swedish meatballs, they’re free and actually pretty good. The thing with prison food that might worry me is that someone might try to poison a prisoner and I might accidentally get the plate that was meant for the intended victim. That would be bad. But let’s just say I lived through that. Well then, I could probably live through just about anything! Think what a strong constitution I would have. And probably a new zest for life. What’s so bad about prison? That’s what I wanna know.

I suppose I’d probably have to be someone’s bitch. Unless, of course, I got in with the right crowd in the beginning. Still, I’m sure I’d have to do stuff I wouldn’t want to do, like rub people’s prison feet. Or clean the bathroom with a toothbrush. Maybe I’m thinking of
Private Benjamin
or
Stripes
. I get prison movies confused with army movies—they both have “Lights out!” By the way, lights out would be fine with me. I have an itty bitty book light that I could use to read old magazines, because I think you only get old magazines in jail. I wouldn’t have to keep up to date anyway; doing time means not knowing what time or day it is. I doubt I’d even wear a watch. The guards tell you when to do everything. To me that’s just another prison perk—I’d never be late for an appointment. And I’d never be early either. (I hate getting somewhere too early, because I never know what to do with myself.) Prison makes so much sense. It seems like I’m the only one who has figured it out.

Granted, it’s probably not all that it’s cracked up to be. For one thing, I most likely would get into at least one fight, even if I kept to myself and minded my own business. I’ve heard of those pillowcase fights they have in prison, but they’re not the kind you have at a slumber party. In prison they fill the cases up with soda cans and beat you severely. That’s an ingenious weapon when you think about it—it’s really making the most of your resources. I hope I don’t get beaten.

They say your best offense is a great defense, so I’d definitely have to be tough in prison. I would probably start smoking. That’s not good, but it would give me something to trade.

I bet I’d get a lot more reading done. I would become a lot smarter by catching up on the classics. You know I’ve never read
The Sound and the Fury
? Prison would be the perfect opportunity! And I could finally get my GED—finally graduate from high school. Wait a minute. I already graduated. I guess I could get my bachelor’s degree and then my master’s, maybe a Ph.D. in something. I could really make a lot of money when I get out.

Also think about how many great friends I would make. Lifelong friends. I’d be sure not to make any friends who were in for petty theft. It would be too hard on me to lose them when they get paroled. If I did make friends who were in for smalltime crimes, hopefully they would be repeat offenders. Then every time they’d get released I could look forward to seeing them in the near future.

I wonder if I would have a pen pal? A lot of criminals get pen pals. I guess some people love to write letters, but I don’t know anyone who does. I love to get mail (not bills—just regular mail), but nobody writes anymore. Prison would be just the ticket to strike up some sort of correspondence. I’d compile everything and make a book out of all the letters. I could call it “Letters from the Pen.”

What could I do to be sent to prison? I wouldn’t want to hurt anybody, but that would be a surefire way. Who could I kill? Maybe I would just attempt to kill them. How much time would I get for attempted murder? What if it’s not enough time to get my Ph.D.?

I could rob a bank, too. Armed robbery with attempted murder … that’s good. And if I’m lucky enough to get away with it, I’d have the money from the bank robbery, so I wouldn’t need my Ph.D. You know what? Now that I think about it, even if I got my Ph.D. I would have to work, and working would mean obligations and responsibilities, so I may as well just go to prison for life.

I’d still read all those books. I would be real smart, and I’d be less stressed because I wouldn’t have all that pressure about what to wear. Without the stress, I’d probably look better too. Although who cares how you look? You’re in prison—you’re in the slammer—the joint—the big house—the clink—the cement Hilton—the lockup—the cooler—the jewelry box—the crate and barrel—the corked jug—the honey pot.

In prison, you have nothing to do all day. I suppose you do have to make your bed. But it’s a cot. How long could that take—two minutes? Then you’ve got another twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes of no obligations, no responsibilities, and no deadlines—that is, except license plate making, and frankly that’s the easiest job I’ve ever heard of. Easier than comedy.

Oh man, prison would be sweet. But for now I’m on the outside, and I’ll just have to deal with it the best I can.

It’s all I know.

The other day a man asked me, “What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?” I thought for a minute about the right way to respond and finally settled on, “Would you please leave the ladies’ room?” He informed me that not only was I not in the ladies’ room, I was actually in his house.

Eventually the whole mess was settled when I explained that I had a severe case of myopia, or “near-sightedness,” as the kids like to say, but I was too vain to wear my glasses. Also, my hair had been kind of flat that day and the combination of flat hair
^a
nd glasses made me look a little like a John Denver impersonator. He understood completely—first, because he was a highly evolved man and second, because I’d already started writing him a blank check for whatever amount he thought would be fair to keep the whole humiliating debacle out of the papers.

Anyway, it got me thinking. There are all sorts of books offering advice on how to deal with life-threatening situations, but where’s the advice on dealing with embarrassing ones? I mean, things like landing a burning plane, wrestling a crocodile, or jumping from a moving train happen maybe five, six times in your life. But if you’re like me, embarrassing things happen hundreds of times each day. I’m too busy being embarrassed to write a whole book on the subject, but here are a few things I’ve learned about how to survive life’s embarrassing moments.

Note: As there are more embarrassing situations than can be noted in one chapter (an independent research company that I made up and then hired puts the figure of possible embarrassing situations somewhere between a gazillion and one and a half-bazillion), I have chosen five at random. And by random I mean, of course, the ones that have happened to me within the last hour.

SITUATION:

FORGETTING
SOMEONE’S
NAME

You’re at a party. Don’t ask me how you were invited. Either your host is very forgiving or he has a very short memory. Or else he realizes that it was partially his fault. Why else would he be bragging about his new fireproof mattress if he didn’t expect you to try it out? And yes, in hindsight it is pretty obvious that just because the mattress is fireproof doesn’t mean that the sheets and irreplaceable antique quilt are fireproof as well. Anyway that’s all water under the bridge (the same water, in fact, that you threw the burning quilt into to put it out).

Anyhoo, you’re at the party, you notice an old friend walking toward you, and you start to panic: You’ve forgotten your friend’s name! (I added the exclamation point to make it doubly exciting. Try it yourself. It’s fun!) Now, when I say “an old friend” I mean a friend you’ve known for a long time, not someone who is really old. Someone really old is not much of a problem because one, by the time they mosey on over to you with their walker you’ll have had time to go home, look up their name in your address book, then scurry on back to the party without them noticing. And two, there’s a good chance they’ve forgotten their own name as well. I’m talking about someone with a good memory moving toward you at a brisk pace. What do you do? What do
you
do?

Solution

There are a few possible solutions to the “forgetting the name” problem. And I’m not talking about ridiculous ones like pretending to faint, then claiming you don’t speak English. That’s not only silly, but it has been proven not to work after the incident when you set fire to your host’s bedroom.

One solution is to have the same nickname for everyone. That way you only have to remember one name. The obvious problem with this is that in the throes of passion you don’t want to be yelling out “Scooter!” or “Itchy!”

A second solution is to say hi to your old friend, then immediately grab hold of a third person and say all innocentlike, “You two know each other, right?” You wait for them to introduce themselves, and then sit back and relax. The problem with this option is if the third person just answers, “No, I don’t know this person.” Now you find yourself in the doubly awkward position of having to introduce two people whose names you’ve forgotten. (And don’t get all smart with me and try to say that you know the other person’s name—you don’t.) I mean, you can always just say, “Scooter, this is Itchy. Itchy, Scooter.” But chances are that isn’t going to work.

The best solution: Say to her, “I’m sorry, remind me again how you pronounce your name?” To which she’ll respond, “Kathy.” Then you continue your clever ruse by saying, “That’s right, the emphasis is on the first syllable,
Ka-
thy. I always think it’s on the second, Ka
-thy
. I’m glad you corrected me, my old friend.” Problem solved!