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  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.

  That’s Why Prison

  Wouldn’t Be So Bad

  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.

  My Most Embarrassing

  Case Scenar
io

  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 and 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!

  Situation:

  Losing Yourself in the Middle

  of a Conversation

  There’s a well-known saying that goes, “Wherever you go, there you are.” It’s a good saying except for one thing: It’s just not true!! (I’d like to apologize for the two exclamation points. Yes, they’re fun, but sometimes you can overuse fun things and all of a sudden they’re not fun anymore. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if I could go back in time, or if I knew how to use the back-space key on my computer, I would eliminate one of the exclamation points. Sorry.) The reason the saying is false is that when our minds are deprived of stimulation they tend to wander. So, yes, you may have gone someplace, but you’re not really there at all. You’re somewhere else entirely, probably trying to remember the words to the Armour Hot Dogs song.

  Now, the type of stimulation the brain needs is not something like being tickled with a feather. The mind is too mature to be amused by that (not so the insides of your knees, which are always up for being tickled). The mind craves interesting conversation. Which brings us back to the party and Ka-thy.

  Kathy, it turns out, is a bore, which I’m guessing is why you forgot her name in the first place. She’s been talking at you for a long time about this and that and you’ve just drifted off: “…fat kids, skinny kids, even kids with chicken pox love hot dogs…” You’re kind of aware of her mouth moving, but you have no idea what she’s saying. Then you hear the words “inhaling mold spores” and, like that—you’re back. You have no idea what the subject of the conversation is, and Kathy has just stopped talking. She’s staring at you (or slightly to the right of you because of her lazy eye), expecting you to say something. What do you do? What do you do?

  Solution

  Some people might tell you that you could fake Kathy out by nodding your head and saying, “Ummm. Uh, hmmm. Mmmmm. I see. Hmmm mmmm.” I am here to tell you that that’s not going to work unless she’s part of the one-tenth of one percent of the country who can be hypnotized by people humming.

  The only proven way to get yourself out of this embarrassing situation is to say something about Gloria Estefan. I’m telling you, as long as you commit to it, she can fit into any conversation. You don’t believe me? Here’s proof. Kathy is still staring at you waiting for a response while you dutifully consider, then reject the honesty and “hmm, hmm” options. Finally you say, “That sounds a lot like Gloria Estefan.” Kathy looks at you funny and says, “What’s that got to do with copper plumbing?” To which you respond, “Well, Gloria Estefan is the copper plumbing of the music industry. She’s beautiful, reliable, and indestructible. Look how she came back after that bus accident! Are you going to debate me on this?!” And, presto, you’re back in the conversation and nobody’s the wiser.

  Situation:

  Accidentally Revealing

  Intimate Thoughts to a Stranger

  Revealing intimate thoughts to a stranger isn’t always embarrassing. In fact, sometimes it’s downright therapeutic. Many people pay strangers to listen to their darkest fantasies and most perverse secret thoughts. Those strangers are known, of course, as Starbucks baristas. But, like most situations in life, when there is no money changing hands, the chances of being embarrassed multiply significantly.

  So you’re still at the party, standing next to Kathy and experiencing one of those long uncomfortable silences that only true friends who have nothing to say to one another get to enjoy. Perhaps you make eye contact with the host of the party.
A flash of recognition passes over his face, much like the flash that sprang up from his bed when you set it on fire. His face turns ashen (not ashen like the beloved first-edition books that you tried to put out the fire with, but gray and pale) and he runs off. Probably a funny reaction to the onion dip, you think to yourself.

  Still looking after the host, you feel the need to reveal something deep and significant to your old friend Kathy. So you say, “My underwear keeps going up my crack.” You hear somebody say, “Excuse me?” Then you turn and see not Kathy but a total stranger. (You don’t recognize any of her, not even her elbow or a little bit of her ear.) Kathy has ditched you. “That’s it,” you say to yourself, “I’m going to forget her name again.” The stranger looks at you and says loudly, “Did you just say your underwear keeps going into your crack?” People start to look at you. What do you do? What do you do?

  Solution

  Deny, deny, deny! Or, to paraphrase Sergeant Schultz, one of the most beloved Nazi soldiers in television sitcom history, “I know nothing. I said nothing.” So, when the stranger asks again if you said your underwear was going up your crack, you calmly look at her and shriek, “No, of course not. Are you kidding? What?! No!”