I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me, page 5
I hate it when people introduce you to someone and use the word “lover.” What lover means is, “I ingest this person’s bodily fluids.” Yuuuccck. Do I really need to have that image in my head two seconds after we’re introduced? “Hi, I’m Jeffrey and this is my lover, Nathan, and I consider his semen to be one of the four basic food groups.” Or “I’m Bob and this is my lover, Susie, and I use her vaginal secretions as an emollient.” This is too much information for an internist, let alone an aging yenta like me.
To me, “we’re lovers” means (a) they’re a pair of wussies who are afraid of commitment, or (b) there’s something seriously wrong with each one of them (seborrhea, erectile dysfunction, hears voices) and the other one is simply waiting for a new trick to come along before hitting the road.
The only thing more annoying than the word lover is the recently divorced dentist with the ponytail who stays in the back of his cousin’s house in the Hamptons (north of the highway) and introduces you to “my lady.” I usually just throw up right on him.
I was in a nightclub in Camden, New Jersey, and I was in a bad mood. The opening act was a magician/gynecologist whose big trick was pulling a hat out of a rabbit. Anyhow, a guy comes into my dressing room and says, “I’d like you to meet my lady.” I said, “When were you knighted?”
I hate the term “partner.” “Yes, we’re partners… This is my life partner, Teddy.” Jacoby & Meyers are partners. Ben & Jerry are partners. Bausch + Lomb are partners. You and Teddy are fuck-buddies.
I hate weddings. Weddings are nothing more than catering with virgins. Sorry, in the old days it was virgins; now it’s baby mommas.
I hate when they throw rice. If you want to throw rice put the children of Darfur on the guest list.
I hate Viennese tables. The only Viennese people I’ve ever heard of were Sigmund Freud, Adolf Hitler and the von Trapp Family Singers—and from what I’m told they all hated fancy desserts, not to mention black-tie affairs and hors d’oeuvres. (And speaking of hors d’oeuvres, never serve pigs in a blanket at a bris. It’s just wrong. Oh, and never call them pigs in a blanket. Use the classy term: pork in a duvet.)
I hate fat brides. A fat girl in a white satin gown doesn’t look beautiful; she looks like an avalanche. I went to a fat girl wedding once. First they threw rice and then, in honor of the bride, they threw gravy. She was so fat there was only room on the cake for one. The priest said, “I now pronounce you husband and Pantload.” He gave her the wafer, she put Velveeta on it and swallowed.
And I hate it when fat girls don’t own up to their fatness. They say things like, “I have a slow metabolism” or “It’s a glandular condition.” Hey, tubby! The tongue is not a gland. Put the cake down.
You know what’s worse than a fat bride? A pregnant bride. Pregnant brides should not wear white. They should wear oversized T-shirts that read: I’M A BIG WHORE. Instead of “Here Comes the Bride,” when she walks down the aisle they should play, “I’m Easy.”
I also hate ugly brides. I went to one wedding where the bride was so hideous I heard her mother whisper to the groom, “Don’t be a schmuck. Take the maid of honor. It’s not too late.” Her father was in such a hurry to get her married he tried to give her away on the way to the church.
I hate WASP weddings. There’s never enough food. As a Jew, can I just say that petit fours and gin do not a meal make? Protestants don’t eat at weddings. They drink and make fun of the Jewish guests who are rifling through the pantries looking for sustenance.
I hate “dry” weddings where they don’t serve alcohol. If I want dry, I’ll spend time in the Mojave Desert or take pictures of my vagina.
There’s this new wedding trend called “destination weddings.” I hate them. This is where the stupid—I mean happy couple gets married on some far-off island and expects you to fly yourself there and put yourself up, in addition to bringing a gift and pretending that you give a shit about them. The invitation always gives you “suggestions” as to where to stay. You have three choices of hotels: For $1,000 per night you get a room with a whirlpool, sauna and automatic mood lighting. For $500 per night you get a view of the ocean and turndown service. And for a buck sixty you can sleep in a locker in the Greyhound terminal, which is so small even the mice are hunchbacked. And you know what? For zero dollars, I can stay home, and you can go fuck yourselves.
I hate weddings with cash bars. Very tacky. The only time you’ll see me open my purse is to give the Mexican busboy the key to my room. If they expect me to pay for the booze, then I expect them to pay for the rehab.
I hate gay weddings. I’m thrilled about the equal rights thing, but I really don’t want to see my mechanic, Ralph, wearing a white dress with a sweetheart neckline and a train.
Gay weddings are like the War on Terror—they go on forever. No “wham, bam, thank you, Sam.” Gay weddings are like a lifetime commitment… for the guests. They start at seven and they end in October. Why? Because stereotypes be damned, gays love parades, that’s why. And a gay wedding is nothing more than a parade with crudités. (One of my gay Jewish friends even threw a parade at his mother’s shiva. Instead of mourners there were mummers and the casket was pulled on a huge “salute to whitefish” float.)
I hate lesbian weddings. I never know what to say to the mother. “You’re not losing a daughter, you’re gaining a carpet muncher” just doesn’t seem right. I went to a lesbian wedding recently. One of the brides was butch and the other was fem, yet they both wore gowns. Of course, one of the gowns was satin and one was flannel… and did you know that Timberland had a bridesmaids line? I didn’t.
It was a gorgeous affair. Everything was done in pink and white. There was an ice sculpture of Rosie O’Donnell and gift bags from Home Depot.… And the catering? C’est magnifique!—salmon, trout, halibut, bass, scallops, shrimp, tuna. All fantastic. The only thing I didn’t like was the dessert. They served ladyfingers and even with an entire bottle of Moët and a shot of Irish coffee, I just couldn’t.
My favorite moment was when the Universal Life minister,* an unfortunate-looking woman named Lotus, who had Medusa-like hair and chin stubble, pronounced them married and the brides exchanged kisses. Some of the guests thought it was poetic and some of them thought it was awkward. And the straight guy sitting next to me thought it was hot because “Who doesn’t like a little girl-on-girl action?”
I hate interfaith marriages. Melissa’s friend, David Levyschwartzberg, married a German girl, Fraulein Helga Bunker. She wasn’t European or Prussian, she was German! It was a horror. Instead of a veil, Helga wore a helmet. Her wedding song was “Deutschland Uber Alles.” The limo she came in had a sidecar. And the wedding gown, uggh! The train was filled with people. Above the door to the bridal suite was a sign that read, “Arbeit macht frei.”
What I do love about weddings is reading the announcements in the New York Times. It’s the highlight of my Sunday. I read the wedding announcements in a very specific order: First I check out the gay couples. The lesbians always have jobs like “professor of women’s studies” or “postal supervisor” or “soccer coach.” And the gay men are always eight hundred years old because they’ve been together since 1972 but just got the right to be married in 2011. And I look at their pictures and think, You waited all these years so you could fuck that?
And then I check out the interracial couples and play the Which Family Is More Disappointed? game. And if I see a really old, moneyed WASP marrying an inner-city black woman, my heart skips a beat:
Preston Riley Wadsworth Johnson III of Locust Valley and Palm Beach is set to marry Lashonda Taniqua Makisha Washington of 144th Street near the C train. The groom is the senior vice president of acquisitions at Goldman Sachs; the bride doesn’t do shit. The wedding is scheduled for some time in early November or maybe late October if Lashonda can get time knocked off for good behavior. The groom is the son of the late Mr. and Mrs. Preston Johnson II, who died in a suicide pact eight days ago. The bride is the daughter of Diaphon
But the best, best, best thing I like about weddings is the sex. Because once you get married, you don’t have to have it anymore.
BAD IDEAS FOR FIRST DATE MOVIES
Unless you have a fetish about huddled, starving factory workers making pots and pans, this is a boner-killer.
Forty minutes into this three-hour movie, Caligula is screwing a horse. No amount of hand-holding or coy snuggling will get you through this evening.
Marley & Me
It’s really just Old Yeller with a wrinkled Jennifer Aniston. Only in this film, the wrong dog dies.
So much for the cutesy-poo postcoital shower.
If Kate Winslet had dropped twenty pounds, maybe the fucking boat wouldn’t have sunk.
The Sound of Music
This is the story of a family of musical children who hide in a cemetery to avoid the Nazis and then run away with a soldier and a nun… are you moist yet?
Unless you love pool, or you find the prospects of Jodie Foster with a man stimulating, this is not a date flick.
You’ll never want oral sex again.
The Wizard of Oz
I know, you’re thinking, But everyone loves The Wizard of Oz. But not for a first date. Judy Garland and thousands of midgets? Please.
*All lesbian weddings have Universal Life ministers—it’s some kind of a rule. Gay men like to have priests and I say, “Why not?” They’ve been sleeping with them for years.
Amy Vanderbilt July 22, 1908–December 27, 1974. Suicide. Vanderbilt was an American authority on etiquette. In 1952, she published the bestselling book Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette.
Everyone knows that Amy Vanderbilt died by jumping out of a window. What everyone doesn’t know is that she put a doily on the sidewalk before she jumped.
She was a lady till the end.
I fucking hate that people are crude and don’t have manners anymore. The last time a man leaned over and opened a car door for me we were on the freeway, and the last time a man pulled out a chair for me I was in Aspen and we were on a ski lift. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I believe when a woman enters a room, men should stand up—and gay men should stand up at least halfway.
Manners matter. For all of his failings, Kadafi had a “please” and “thank-you” for everyone. Idi Amin sent lovely notes after every dinner, cannibal or vegetarian. Ted Bundy always opened the car door for those girls. As busy as they were, if those men could find the time for etiquette, so can you.
I grew up with a guy who, to this day, has the worst manners of any human I’ve ever seen. People were so repulsed by his lack of decorum they’d stop him and say, “My God, you must’ve been raised by wolves!” And he’d say, “Yes, I was.” His name was Henry Wolf (technically he was raised by the Wolfs, but why nitpick?) They lived down the hall in apartment 9J. Let me tell you, the Wolfs were pigs. Roaches took a look at their kitchen and committed suicide.
I hate bad table manners. For example, according to etiquette, you’re always supposed to leave something on your plate. Unlike Kirstie Alley, who doesn’t even leave the pattern. And never, ever put your elbows on the table. If you do then you can’t free up your hands to smack the whiny little brats sitting next to you—or grope your best friend’s husband.
I hate people who chew with their mouths open. Chewing is the start of the digestive process and I don’t want to watch it. If I want to see a foreign object in someone’s mouth I’ll look at Colin Farrell’s sex tape. I don’t want to witness the beginning of the process any more than I do its end. It’s food, not feed; you’re a person, not an animal, so unless you go to a restaurant where they serve cud, unless your name is Elsie and you have an endorsement deal with Borden’s, zip your lips. As I tell my grandson and all his little friends, “Children, if you’re chewing, your mouth shouldn’t be open wider than your mommy’s legs when the FedEx man visits.”
I hate people who talk with food in their mouth. Don’t do it!!! You’re not interesting enough that whatever it is you’re going to tell me can’t wait until you swallow.
Let’s say you’re an accountant or an actuary and we meet at a cocktail party. (Okay, the odds of that aren’t good, what with my being beyond famous, a great diva, a fashion icon and ambassador to five third-world countries and you being, well, an actuary, but for the purpose of this book let’s say we do meet). We’re having canapés and hors d’oeuvres—maybe lump crab or mushroom caps or, if it’s a Hasidic event, something overcooked and bland. Anyway, you shove a deviled egg into your puss and immediately start whining about balance sheets or nose hair or basketball, and I’m standing there, bored and nauseous, dodging bits of yolk. How is this okay? No one, and I mean no one (unless they can help my career), is fascinating enough to start a conversation when they have a mouthful of chopped liver. So unless you’re going to warn me that Freddy Krueger is sneaking up behind me with an ax, finish chewing first.
I hate people who make sucking sounds with their teeth. It’s both vulgar and mystifying at the same time. What have they got stuck between their teeth that tastes so good? Certainly nothing I cooked.
If a person has something stuck in his teeth, tell him! You can say things like, “Bet that meal was good. I see you’re saving some for later.” Or “I’m glad to see you’re not one of those people who feels compelled to brush.”
I hate double-dippers, those inconsiderate slobs who put their crackers in the dip, take a bite, and then dip in again. That is so disgusting. Now the hummus is contaminated—like the Ohio River or Courtney Love’s bloodstream.
I hate people who blow their nose at the dinner table and then look in their hankie. What do they think they’re going to find? “Look, I just blew out Jimmy Hoffa… and he’s covered in snot!”
I hate nose picking, especially in restaurants. It’s a disgusting habit, but as it turns out, a prerequisite to getting a job as a cabdriver in New York City. I know sometimes you have to remove something from your nose—mucus, dried phlegm, or just part of your old nose—but once you’ve finished the excavation please don’t flick it or wipe it on your napkin. There’s a reason God gave the woman at the next table dolman sleeves.
I hate people who belch. In Japan, burping is the sign of a good meal, but in America it’s a sign that someone needs a good antacid. I used to have a business friend* who burped at the end of every meal and then said, “You know, in Tokyo that’s considered a compliment!” So I went to his house and shit on the table and said, “In Libya that means you’re rich enough to eat.”
I hate people who don’t use silverware. Unless you’re in Morocco or Ethiopia, do not eat with your hands. In Morocco they eat everything with their hands, which makes it very difficult to enjoy soup (although it is a lot of laughs watching them eat pudding). Ethiopia’s a little better because they have nothing to eat. So while their stomachs may be bloated, their fingers are squeaky clean.
I hate men who don’t pull out a lady’s chair at the table. Unless it’s a wheelchair. Yes, watching a helpless paralytic wriggle around on the carpet sure is funny, but helping her back into her chair is a huge pain in the ass. I’m a giver, but I don’t lift. And since I’m on the topic: Can we talk about handicapped etiquette?
I hate the handicapped and their privileged parking. Why should the lame be able to park close to the mall entrance while I have to schlep through the rain and the wind and the sleet to do my shopping? Dollars to donuts I’m going to spend more than they will. How many pairs of crutches does one need, or reflector lights or stick-on rails for the bathroom?
I hate people who decorate their wheelchairs with flags and stickers and tinsel and horns and feathers. You’re a paraplegic, not a mummer. I find that kind of “l
I hate dealing with the handicapped as I never know the proper etiquette. What am I supposed to do when I’m introduced to someone who has tiny thalidomide hands? Nod affectionately and say, “You know, Flipper was one of my favorite shows”? Or do I go with something kicky like, “I can see who’s the swimmer in your family”?
I hate that it’s my responsibility to know which ear is your “good” ear. I start talking and five minutes into telling some hilarious story about Tom Cruise and a thermometer you interrupt with, “Could you please speak into my good ear?” So not only have I lost my punch line because you broke the rhythm, but I’m also aggravated because you wasted five minutes of my valuable time—time that could have been better spent shopping or berating others. So unless you’re Vincent van Gogh, wear a sign that reads: TRY THE LEFT EAR. THE RIGHT ONE’S JUST FOR SHOW.
I hate handicapped ramps in sidewalks. They create puddles and are so filled with wheelchair people it’s hard to skateboard down them.
I hate the rules about Seeing Eye dogs or “companion animals.”* The disabled can be so fussy. If you encounter a Seeing Eye dog on the street you’re not supposed to pet them or scratch them or even say “Stop” when they lead their master into oncoming traffic.