Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut Read online

  Dedicated, with non-stalkerish admiration,

  to

  Woody Allen,

  my hero and the funniest human ever

  Contents

  Introduction

  1 Glossary

  2 Things That Haunt Me

  3 Babysitters from Hizznell

  4 Weird Science (Minus Kelly LeBrock)

  5 Wednesday Addams in Barbietown

  6 Tea with Dracula

  7 I Am a Gay Man Trapped in a Woman’s Body

  8 Everybody’s Gotta Start Somewhere

  9 Obsessed/Detest

  10 A Letter to My Crappy One-Bedroom

  11 My Vagina Is the Holland Tunnel

  12 My Top Ten Most Blush-Inducing Moments of Motherhood (Thus Far)

  13 Proposal to Essie Nail Color: New Names!

  14 Right Address, Wrong Apartment

  15 Thirty-four and Holding

  16 Tumor Humor

  17 Putting the Ass in Aspen

  18 Spinagogue

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  The irony is I fucking hate coconut. As in full vomitorious spine chills just thinking about its nasty texture, to say nothing of the chunder-taunting scent that conjures peroxide-y sluts smearing their ’kini cleaves with Panama Jack “tanfastic” oil. I might even go so far as to say I don’t even trust people who like coconut. But still, despite nightmarish Hawaiian Tropic/Girls Gone Wild visions and hellacious flashbacks of a bearded Tom Hanks looking not unlike the twentieth hijacker eating coconuts on that island, if I had to identify myself with one advertising campaign, it would be the eighties jingle of Mounds and Almond Joy. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.

  For twenty-five years, my father worked for Doyle Dane Bernbach, the legendary Madison Avenue advertising agency that was proto–Don Draper, complete with the same martini lunches and genius minds, but the Jewy Jewstein version. When most peeps see commercials, they get up to pee, get another soda, or comment on the program that was just interrupted. Yeah, no. Not in our house. “Be quiet,” my dad would instruct us through the first decade of my childhood. “Guys, shhhh, please, the commercials are on.”

  He was obsessed, so we were obsessed. Copywriting. Casting. Execution. We raved about great ads and rolled our eyes over the shitty ones. I still do (Dr. Scholl’s “Ya Gellin’,” anyone?). I started to think of individuals in terms of campaigns. The blow job queen was Bounty (“The Quicker Picker-Upper”), the geeks who got hazed in high school were Timex (“Takes a Licking and Keeps on Ticking”), the virginal church mouse was Ivory soap (“99.44% Pure”), the hot guy I had a crush on was Bell telephone (“Reach Out and Touch Someone”—i.e., me).

  My brother and I grew up so attuned to branding and media images that when it came time to write my college essay, to, in fact, brand myself, I chose to do so with a slogan. At the time, fall of 1991, HBO’s tagline was “Simply the Best.” AT&T’s was “The Right Choice.” I could have kissed ass and picked one of those and sold myself in a shining halo of light as the girl upon whose blessed head they should bestow admission. But I am a firm believer in truth in advertising. So while I could have tooted my horn and painted myself as my public persona of well-rounded student, a capella singer, newspaper editor, big brag sheet blah blah blah, the reality was—and still is—that I’m a weirdo. I’m inappropriate. I laugh when I’m not supposed to (actress in a play accidentally falling off the stage, funerals), and I peed my pants a little bit when my poor French waiter tried his damndest to recite the “made in de haus ice cream flavors” as “bitch and apricunt.” I laugh all day long, pretty much. I can’t not laugh. Humor has been the buoy that keeps my entire family afloat.

  My dad did stand-up comedy to put himself through business school and he instilled in us a value system based on good times and cackles aplenty. Not the let’s-dance-on-tables-and-snort-lines-of-coke type of good times, but let’s laugh our asses off if we can. We’re all gonna be dead in eighty years or less, and the ones who live the best obviously aren’t the ones with the most money or most successful careers; they’re the ones who laugh the most. Who are the most nutty. Not as in wack-job serial killer who makes suits out of fat people, but as in the right kind of bonkers. The goofy kind. The type who giggles and guffaws, even in tricky times.

  My idol, Woody Allen, once had a character in one of his films hatch a formula I value above anything Einstein could have cracked: Comedy = Tragedy + Time.

  Brilliant, right? The bigger the tragedy, the more time is needed, obviously (remember when everyone went shithouse when the New York Post used “H’caust” in a headline to abbreviate “Holocaust”?!). And obviously big tragedies can’t ever become comedic. The little blind panhandling child in Slumdog Millionaire won’t sit around at age ninety-two and be like, “Ha, wasn’t that so funny how those beggar pimps poured acid in my retinas?” But in general, my 20/20 hindsight has made me, eventually, absolutely howl at anything on the spectrum, from the ordinary, Seinfeldian banal (“That’s gold, Jerry, gold!”) to situations that were, at the time, unbearable. Granted, my life is a slice of cheesecake relative to what some endure (Slumdog Millionaire chemically burnt eyeballs et al.); I was hardly shaking a cup on the corner, I’ve never buried parents, and my New Yorker frenzied “stress” of being a working mom of three was always relative. But I did get cancer at thirty-five. And the surgery gave me scars that make me look not unlike stitched-up Sally from Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. But, honestly, in comparison to some past romantic breakups and other previous life drama, the C-word was nada mucho. (BTW, the C-word used to be not “cunt” but “cobbler,” a term I detest because it’s a fruit dessert and someone who fixes shoes; go figure.)

  Because I’ve trained myself to use nuttiness as a coping mechanism, the surgeons at Sloan-Kettering were quasi-uncomfy with my O.R. Tumor Humor (“So am I totally gonna be Sinéad O’Kargman or what?”). But when I e-mailed my friends updates and wisecracks about my wheelchair drag racing, they all said they were happy to see I was still joking around. That I was still myself, still a nut. I think in my little abacus of smiles, I’m racking up more than most. I’m hoping that anyone who may be in a quagmire might recognize themselves in some of these bizarre adventures and know that, in time, as St. Woody of Allen said, they will be mined for comedy. More than comedy. Gold, Jerry, gold.

  1

  after party: I do not know what this is. Must be in PJs and ’zontal by Jon Stewart or eyelids are at half-mast and “beeyotch” takes on new meaning.

  food baby: When you eat such a huge meal you look pregnant—but instead of the tenant being a fetus, it’s eggplant Parm.

  Frederica Bimmel: The size-14 murder victim whose skin Buffalo Bill fashions into a suit in The Silence of the Lambs. As in: OMG, I can’t believe we ate those cheese fries at that hour; I’m Frederica Bimmel.

  godfathering: Having heavy days of your period, i.e., blood everywhere. As in: We can have sex tonight, but I’m totally godfathering so the bedsheet will make the Law & Order sound when we finish.

  jam-jim: Ladino word my mother uses to mean “the sound in a mosque,” i.e., silence. For example: We went to this new restaurant that was supposed to be happenin’ but when we went in, it was totally jam-jim.

  kielbasa fingers: When you chow too much MSG and your rings are cutting off circulation. F
or instance: OMG, we totally feasted at China Fun and this morning I have total kielbasa fingers. Synonym: “soy-raped.”

  maror: Bitter herb in Passover Seder but used colloquially, as in, That girl is always complaining; why is she so fucking maror?

  matando moshcas: Ladino expression: killing flies, like when someone has nothing to do. E.g.: Poor department stores in this economic crisis! I walked into Bendel’s and the salespeople were matando moshcas!

  quahog: Giant North Atlantic clam, i.e., megabitch. That girl always looks like she just sucked a lemon; I hear she’s a total quahog.

  Sistine baby: A little nugget so cute s/he looks chiseled off an Italian frescoed ceiling.

  Spitzering: Bangin’ hos. Oh, sorry, “courtesans.” Like, They seem like a really cute couple but I hear he’s totally Spitzering.

  tramp stamp: Tattoo just above your ass crack.

  wait up, guys: A certain type of social climber whose identity is wrapped up in running with those s/he deems “popular.” As in: Wait up, guys, what’re you doing? Oh, after party at the Boom Boom Room? Wait up!

  WORDS I WANT TO BRING BACK INTO HEAVY ROTATION

  crummy: I never knew it was spelled with two m’s and not like “crumby,” like something that instantly disintegrated into crumbs. But no, it’s “crummy.” And I love it. See “lousy.”

  golly: I use “OMG” a lot but now that it’s been co-opted by Miley and the gang, I want to revert to the Pollyanna version. Especially after I e-mailed my mom “OMFG” and she was unpleased.

  lousy: My dad always says it when food tastes like shit and I think it’s really ol’ school and funny.

  rascal: Mischief without evil. Bad kids today seem like they’re lighting shit on fire.

  robber: I feel like kids today don’t fear “robbers” the way my brother and I did, seventies-style, like the Hamburglar with the Zorro mask and shit.

  Words I Want to Never Hear Again

  cobbler: See above.

  custard: Dunno why, just sounds mucusy. I’m big on texture.

  guesstimate: My friend Lisa’s personal cheese-grater-to-the-ear, and as with things that irk close friends, it’s contagious. Fuck “guesstimate.” You can totally see the person who came up with it feeling so clever, like whoever invented “Hotlanta.” Which isn’t even clever ’cause it doesn’t rhyme! I would like to rename it “Fatlanta.”

  “I have a salmon special for $19.95”: Double whammy. I hate when waiters say “I have” (you don’t “have” anything, you’re just fucking bringing it out). Also not into when they give the price. Unless it’s some serious gouging, like white truffles or lobster flown in from a private Richard Branson–y island off the coast of Maine and you’re paying for the airfare. With little lobster seat belts.

  nother: As in That’s a whole nother thing. “Nother” is not a word, people!

  2

  I don’t freak about heights. Or Freddy Krueger. Or snakes. In fact, when my husband, Harry, and I drove cross-country—sorry, he drove cross-country and I sat managing the pre-XM staticky terrestrial radio stations—we stopped in a small town in rural Wyoming. Wait, that was a redundancy. After a lunch of something fried, we saw a dude with a huge python wrapped around his entire body. When I exclaimed how cool it was he asked me if I wanted to try it on.

  “Totally!” I said, as Harry’s face contorted in sheer shock.

  “Who are you?” Harry asked me, unable to reconcile that the girl who shrieks at ear-splitting decibels at the sight of a bug was now Britneying a mammoth reptile.

  I may scream over a roach on the sidewalk—oh, sorry, water bug (but let’s face it, they’re all fucking roaches)—but a nine-foot anaconda’s pas de problème. Which is all to say: I am a freakazoid about fear. I don’t get scared of regular things that have the word “phobia” attached (arachnophobia, acrophobia, etc.). The things that haunt me are sometimes understandable but still pretty abnormal. Here’s some backstory on a few assorted things I find extremely troubling.

  1. Vans

  Yes, vans. Not the sk8er checkerboard Ked-like SoCal shoe, but rather the vehicle. I hereby propose the following: nothing good comes from vans. I’m not talking about old Volkswagen hippie vans filled with pot smoke or even ones where you can see the band equipment piled in. I’m talking windowless, double-door, Silence of the Lambs–mobiles. I’m talking duct-taped Frederica Bimmel in the back. I’m talking drug dealers. I have long believed vans almost always hold kidnapped kids. When I was a child in the seventies in New York, the tragedy of Etan Patz, a little boy who disappeared on his way to school, haunted the city. Haunted. I mean every parent on every block told their kids the story, how he vanished the first time his dad let him walk alone. For years I’d look at creepy vans and assume a kid was stuck in there with rope around him, trying to force out a sound from under the silver tape or bandana shoved in his mouth. Buffalo Bill’s escapades in The Silence of the Lambs, among those of other Hollywood villains, included the use of vans, further supporting my theory. Then, in college, the worst story. As in, please dive into my nightmares, the water’s warm. I met a girl from rural Vermont who was so sweet. One night we stayed up talking about her new boyfriend and I asked if they’d done it yet. She told me they were waiting and I wondered why, as they seemed so cute and happy together. And then she told me that when she was fourteen she was walking home from a neighbor’s house when a van pulled up alongside her, the door slid open, and three guys grabbed her, threw her inside, and gang-raped her virginity away. I almost threw up. I was ass-white. I was a mess. But natch it only added to my anxiety about vans, which has spiraled to traumatic proportions.

  Then years later, yours truly decided to take a driving lesson. Yes, at thirty-five I do not drive. Long story long, I’d never needed to drive before, what with buses and taxis and N trains and, you know, legs. But I’d grown tired of everyone teasing me and decided that my lack of motor vehicle knowledge was not in sync with the fact that I am a strong independent woman. Whoops, sorry, that sounded way too Beyoncé-esque. I just felt like it wasn’t part of my personality to be a perma-passenger. After all, as Volkswagen ads say, on the road of life, there are passengers and there are drivers. Okay, fine, so I couldn’t drive, but I felt like I was a driver type, despite the sad fact that I truly did not know which pedal was which.

  My teacher Dennis was the local high school football coach near my parents’ house in Massachusetts.

  At first I was positively schvitzing, convinced I’d mow over an ice-cream-licking tot or golden retriever named Bailey or Tucker, but then my years of playing Atari Pole Position kicked in. (I knew they were good for something! Now I just have to figure out how the hell Donkey Kong helped me . . .) My fear subsided and I got really into it. After my first lesson I thought I was Mario Andretti. Dennis said I was an A student!

  The more curves the road took, the more empowered and revved up I felt, until by the hour’s end I was ready to do a full Whitesnake-era Tawny Kitaen hood-straddle. But since I lacked a dry-ice machine for smoky effects, flame-red waist-length hair, and a gauzy dress, I decided against it. Oh, and also, instead of a white Jaguar my chariot was a beige Ford Focus emblazoned with the words “Student Driver.” Decidedly less scorching hot.

  As it turned out, however, my cockiness was all beginner’s luck. Clichés exist for a reason, and that reason is me. My second lesson blew and left me with zero confidence at the wheel, which I am plagued with at this printing.

  What, you may ask, does this have to do with vans? Everything, actually. So lesson #2: I’m cruising along trying to keep my focus in the Focus, basking in the rays of my instructor’s praise of my killa skills, feeling extra Tawnyish. Then, lo
and behold, a ramshackle death trap on wheels (van) cuts me off with a crazy rubber-burning screeching turn in front of me. I scream my head off, slamming on the brakes, and if my harrowing escape isn’t enough for a second-day driving student, suddenly the double door that would usually hold the roped up kidnappee with duct-taped piehole, unable to scream, burst open, unleashing a fury of splattered food. Dennis leaned over and slammed my horn until the asshole van driver clued in that his vehicle had just shat out a seafood feast. As it turns out, assholic driver was not a serial killer, but in fact a moronic caterer en route to a deliver a Silence of the Clams beachside lobster bake. Not one, not two, but about twenty red crustaceans and bags o’ steamers littered the road and a huge bowl of gloppy potato salad landed on the hood of my car. So I had slammed on the brakes and swerved out of the way, deftly avoiding claw crackage, crossing over the double yellow line. Thank almighty Adonai there wasn’t an oncoming car careening toward us or yours truly would’ve gone the way of the aforementioned crustaceans. After hyperventilation that nearly necessitated a brown paper bag, I shakily attempted some parallel parking but was so rattled by the onslaught of flying sea creatures that I lost my nerve and my will to keep trying to drive. Again.

  Which is all to say: fuck vans.

  2. Nellie Oleson

  I’m still haunted, twenty-five years later, by my fierce, all-consuming, intense loathing of the ringleted Little House on the Prairie cunty villainess. Her smug smirk. Her ice-blue eyes. Her merciless taunting of Laura Ingalls, who, while beaverish and semi-annoying, did not deserve that shit. Nellie had her petticoats and her satin bows and her big-ass house: she’d won! Her family owned the fucking store! Everyone else had to cross fields swinging empty buckets to score their loot and she just rolled out of her princess bed downstairs! Bitch. She had it all; why did she need to goad Laura with those bitchy dirty looks and snobbery? As a child I hated her *so* much I literally wanted to go and find the actress who played her and murder her and chop off her blond curls. Because you can’t act evil that well. It’s like Brenda on 90210 years later. But way worse. ’Cause Nellie never cracked. My other fantasy involving N.O. was to take a time machine back there and show her all my stuff, like my TV, and say, “You think you’re so great with your pa owning the store, you rich bitch? Well look what I got! A fucking television, that’s what! Fuck you, Nellie Oleson!”