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20 Things My Mother And I Have Argued About

Posted by Unknown Kamis, 13 Juni 2013 0 komentar

Since she arrived at my apartment two weeks ago, these are some of the arguments my mom and I have had:

1. Whether orange bougainvillea was in fact orange bougainvillea.

2. Why the 8 ounces of water I make her drink twice a day with her medication is in a glass so big she’s never seen a glass that big ever in her entire life am I trying to drown her.

3. How sponges work.

4. The fruit flies in my kitchen should pay rent there are so many of them.

5. Who shut down the online Mah-jongg game when they should have checked with her first to see if she was done playing.

6. The guy who parks next to me is probably glad I had my car washed.

7. Why did it take me so long to get my car washed.

8. We need to stop eating tilapia.

9. Why I eat in front of my computer and will probably die there.

10. That the people on So You Think You Can Dance really can’t dance if you call that dancing.

11. Why don’t I hang up paintings over the couch only hobos live like that.

12. Whether the woman at Bank of America wrote down her password and will try to get into her account because she looks shifty and is Russian and mom is part Russian and knows shifty when she sees it.

13. Why am I forcing her to go to the LaBrea Tar Pits when everybody but me knows she hates fossils.

14. Who moved her coffee cup.

15. Who moved her dish.

16. Who moved her glass.

17. Who moved my coffee cup.

18. Who moved my dish.

19. Who moved my glass.

20. Who drank all the wine.

(21.) me

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How Many Mothers Does It Take To Drive You Crazy?

Posted by Unknown Selasa, 02 April 2013 0 komentar

It’s said that you never understand your mother until you become a mother yourself. Unless you count my helicopter parenting of my dog in 1990 I never became a mother. At least not the kind that wasn’t followed by the F word.

I grew up in Maryland, south of the Bacon-Dixon Line as my sister Lindy used to call it, and you don’t know humiliation as a teenager in the suburbs until you’re at the mall and your French mom yells across a crowded store, “Suzeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, we finally found a brassiere small eeeeenough for you.” A French mom, just what every teenager needs to match her acne and double A cup bra.

Although Mom speaks English, it’s not her first language so some words still elude her:

MOM: If I'd had stinking balls I would have thrown zem at zose people.
ME: You mean a stink bomb?
MOM: Oui mon Dieu, STINKING BALLS.

and...

ME: How are you this morning?
MOM: Not gude, I was reaching for somesing and injured my rotating cup.
ME: You have a cup that rotates?
MOM: Don’t you know anysing about anatomy?

And she doesn’t understand idioms at all. At my 8th birthday party she told my little friends that “You can’t have your cake and eat it too” and they all burst into tears.

Talking on the phone with her requires enormous concentration and math skills. Recently she told me that "Things haven't been this bad since the end of the Civil War.” Apparently she's older than I thought. She’s lied about her age for so long that I’m now older than she is. She said she has a doctor's appointment on Dec 13, 1912. She'd better push that appointment up BECAUSE OH MY GOD HOW IS SHE STILL ALIVE?

When she makes her yearly pilgrimage from Paris to Los Angeles the first thing Mom notices is what's wrong with my hair; the first thing Mom doesn’t notice is my rage. She can never open her luggage upon arrival, the key is missing, lost, or stolen by the customs inspectors trying to make off with her 32 year-old house dress. Then she sighs and when my mother sighs, it's the sigh of a thousand failures, which the French perfected. She’s such an expert at it that once in a hotel room she sighed so loudly she inadvertently ordered room service. I always joke that I'm getting my mother a silver lining for her birthday. Really not a joke.

She stays six weeks with my sister and two weeks with me and Lindy and I live in the same city. She demands so much attention that my friends can’t reach me as I’m basically incommunicado, which is Latin for Close to a Nervous Breakdown. I’m not my mother’s favorite child, as you might have figured out by now. I figured it out after she gave me her wedding gown for my own marriage and she knows full well I look terrible in maternity clothes. I brought out my baby scrapbook one day and in a group picture from kindergarten asked Mom to pick me out. Apparently I was a Chinese kid

But the irritation goes both ways. Whereas I can sit in a chair for four days straight, mom can't sit still for two minutes. She starts dinner. At 11 am. She has this bad habit of opening a window wherever she is: a car, your home, in every room. Needless to say I'm afraid to fly with her. She snores as rhythmically as a metronome so it's really too bad I don't play a musical instrument. She always calls me by my sister's name during phone calls but when we hang up I make sure to say, "Goodbye Dad." And Mom, if you’re reading this, you can’t get Dad’s military pay because he’s been dead for ten years so NO I CAN'T CALL HIM FOR YOU.

I make fun of my mom a lot. In my act, on the Internet, and in real life. And the person who laughs the loudest is my mom. She’s a good sport about it all and I know she enjoys the attention. But it has occurred to me the reason she laughs is she probably doesn’t understand my jokes and wants to throw some stinking balls at my head.

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An Excerpt From My Book, Celebrity sTalker

Posted by Unknown Selasa, 26 Februari 2013 0 komentar

This is from the chapter on Sly Stallone: No Wonder I Never Wanted An Easy-Bake Oven.

I’m not in great shape. The only time anyone wrote “lots of abs” next to my name was in my attendance report from high school. So I joined a gym. You can’t not join a gym in Los Angeles. The authorities will find out and suddenly you’re on a billboard that says Got Fat?

So I Got Serious and hired a trainer, or rather hired the one that Bally’s Gym assigned to me. He'd been Mr. Bulgaria twice; Mr. Northern California in the early 90s and wrote three fitness books, which was three more than I'd written. I felt sorry for him; his business card was an unevenly sliced-up piece of Xerox paper. He was earnest and committed, probably had a family waiting in a cramped one-bedroom apartment somewhere in Koreatown, expecting him to put borscht on the table. He had that sad, vacant look that people who do not ever expect to catch up with life have. I have the same expression after I’ve had sex.

Mr. Bulgaria loved working out and assumed I did also because why else would I be at the gym?

Sidebar: Cute guys, the smoothie bar and cute guys. Oh yes, and cute guys.

I don’t understand why people love to sweat. “It gets out all the toxins.” If there are toxins leaking out of any part of me it means my alcohol levels are dangerously low so point me in the direction of a martini.

Maybe I’d love working out if I enjoyed eating. Then there would be a goal, to lose weight or keep a steady weight. But I hate eating even more than I hate working out. Hand me a pill marked LUNCH and I’m done until I’m handed a pill marked DINNER. Give me a purple drink like the one in the movie Barbarella. Jane Fonda drinks it when she wakes up from a hundred and fifty-four hour nap. Sounds like a perfect place to live; you drink your meals and get to nap for six days in a row. That movie was made in 1963 so apparently the future has let us down. And by us I mean me.

I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try the food at the trendy new restaurant in Who Cares, Connecticut. I lived with a man who used to drive me crazy because while we were eating breakfast he’d ask me what we should do for lunch. At lunch, he’d ask me what we should do for dinner. At dinner, he’d ask me what we should do for breakfast. No, we’re not still together, why do you ask?

When I do manage to eat something I inhale the whole thing and am then surprised to discover that it *serves 4.* Four what, anorexics? I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Ina Garten move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.

The only machine I used regularly at the gym was the water fountain but I kept going because of the cute guys. And the smoothie bar. And oh yes, the cute guys. But sometime in the last few years the cute boys emigrated to marriage and the gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorts me through them as if he’s afraid I'll stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.

The gym rat in our family is my sister Lindy, who once graced the cover of Muscle and Fitness magazine. Her nickname in college was The Body. My nickname in college was Can You Introduce Me to Your Sister. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s always telling me I don’t work out enough, that I don’t do enough aerobics. Like getting up from the couch and lying back down twenty times a night isn’t aerobic. Every time we have an earthquake I grab my Shake Weight so as to maximize the effects of the shifting tectonic plates. If that’s not dedication to exercise then I don’t know what is.

“How do I look in this bathing suit?” I once asked her.

“You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she saw me in shorts and said, “You look terrific; not like you did in that bathing suit.”

As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever the hell the deltoid goes...

(...continued in book)

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