I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me (9 page)

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 “look at me” narcissism terribly inconsiderate. If you need attention that badly, set yourself on fire.

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.

I hate having to look the blind in the eye.
It makes me very self-conscious and I don’t do self-conscious well. I remember the good old days when blind people wore sunglasses and gently rocked back and forth when speaking, like they were davening in temple. That all changed when José Felícíano got too big for his britches. In the late sixties José had a nice little career going: He had a couple of hit songs, wore a macramé plant holder on his head and was a regular on
The Ed Sullivan Show
. (FYI, on Sullivan, José was always preset, like the Austrian plate spinners or Topo Gigio, so he wouldn’t wander the stage for a half hour, feeling for his mark with his shoe.) Anyway, somewhere between “Light My Fire” and “Feliz Navidad” José got the bright idea that his fans wanted to see his eyes when he sang. Wrong. We didn’t. If I’m interested in seeing two balls bouncing around someone’s face I’ll sneak into George Michael’s bedroom.

And to finish off the subject of blind people: They have no social manners. When was the last time a blind
person paid you a compliment, like, “Hey, you’ve lost weight!” or “Wow, fuckface, you sure have gotten old.”

I hate people who cross the street against the light.
I think drivers should be allowed to run them over. The notion that they’re so important that everyone else on the road has to stop short, thus throwing the kids through the windshield, is ridiculous. Okay, maybe the “kids through the windshield” thing isn’t so bad, but still, why should we have to ruin our brake pads because some asshole can’t tell “stop” from “go?”

Even the aforementioned blind have no excuse to cross against the light. These days the goddamned walk/don’t walk signs beep, whiz, bang and speak. Even Stephen Hawking, blindfolded, would get the message not to wheel into oncoming traffic.

I hate people who can’t walk two blocks without drinking water.
How thirsty could you be? Did you have a block of salt for lunch? If camels can go months without stopping for a bottle of Poland Spring, surely you can get to Fifty-eighth Street. Anne Frank went almost two years before she needed a little quenching. Helen Keller may have yelled, “Water,” but she didn’t stick her head under the pump and start slurping. Parched as she was, she went right up to her agent and made a book and movie deal first.

I hate people who offer me a drink of water from their bottle after wiping it off with the
hem of their sweaty T-shirt and then, when I refuse, they won’t take “no” for an answer.

“You look like a prune, have a sip.”

“No thank you, I’m fine.”

“No really, have some, it’s good for you.”

“No, no… I’m hydrogen intolerant.”

So what I do now is take a drink and give the bottle back to them. And once they’ve sipped from it again I say, “Did I tell you that right before I met you here today I blew a homeless guy.” They’ll never bother you about water again.

I hate people who don’t know how to handle a fart in the elevator.
If you’re the owner of the offending tush and you’ve let loose something more noxious than Zyklon B and you can’t ignore the watering eyes of fellow passengers, then at least have the manners to quietly acknowledge the horror. And while there may be nothing you can say to make restitution for their collapsed lungs, you can certainly try to look apologetic and make an excuse. A surefire one for me is, “I had no idea Michelle Obama’s recipe for fried chicken gives you gas. I was just trying to be a good Democrat.” The goal here is not to deny ownership of the mushroom cloud but to elicit sympathy from the offended parties, which serves two purposes: (1) They will forgive the flatulence, and (2) It gives you license to fart again and again and again.

I hate people who are too polite.
For example, when you’re on line for popcorn at the movie theater and the guy behind the counter says, “Next guest.” I’m not a guest, you pimple-faced high-school dropout. I’m a customer. You have Jujubes and I’m going to buy them. That’s the extent of our relationship. Get it? Guests are people who come to my house for dinner. I don’t charge them for the brisket or the soup because they’re
guests
. So if you’re going to say that I’m a guest then treat me as a guest. Allow me to help myself to the Junior Mints, the nonpareils, some Milk Duds, Chuckles and six bags of Gummi Bears. And if you even think of asking me for a penny I’ll clog up your toilets and slash your tires. And worst of all I’ll make you sit through a Dane Cook film festival.

I hate people who always find something nice to say about others.
My husband, Edgar, was one of those people. I hate that kind of largesse. One day I asked him, “Hey, four-eyes, what about John Wayne Gacy? He killed thirty-three boys and buried them under his house. What nice thing can you say about him?” And Edgar said, “Well, he wasn’t lazy. And he was a homeowner!”

I hate people who talk to me from the next stall in public restrooms, especially when—to be blunt—they’re moving their bowels!
I’m not an English professor, but I am pretty sure grunting isn’t
part of sentence structure. If you’re going to chat me up stall to stall, then the only words coming out of your mouth better be, “Oh my God, I think I lost the fetus!” or “Is this your five-carat diamond ring that just rolled over here?”

I hate hosts who hide the extra roll of toilet paper in their guest bathrooms.
When I have guests, I don’t hide the toilet paper. I want them to know where it is. Or at least know where I can find a good dry cleaner for the drapes they used instead.

Why do hostesses always hide the extra roll of toilet paper in some kind of a knitted cozy thing that looks like an upside down cap? Is this just a passive-aggressive way of saying, “Go shit in your hat?”

If you’re a guest at a dinner party and want to leave the powder room smelling daisy fresh, always carry matches or a little spray with you, just in case. If you’re a vegan, please carry an industrial pesticide, like DDT. Otherwise you’ll have to hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes to let the place aerate. Pretend you’re the quality-control manager at a sulfur mine.

I hate guests who don’t tell you they have special dietary needs.
If you’re kosher or halal or vegetarian or lactose intolerant or just tend to vomit up most cooked foods, don’t be angry with me because I won’t cook something special for you. (All that defrosting wears me out.) What I will do is have one of my
many illegal staff members do it. I find people are willing to do all kinds of things with the threat of deportation hanging over their heads.

I threw a fabulous dinner party once for a well-known actor who shall remain nameless: Matthew Modine. He arrived and said, “My wife’s a vegan. She doesn’t eat anything with eyes.” I said, “You must have a shitty sex life.”

I hate guests who kiss me when I’m hosting a party.
When you come in, say “hello,” give me an air kiss and go mingle. I have no idea where your mouth has been. I don’t want you to give me a big kiss and then for the rest of the evening I have this lingering taste of Fleet Week in my mouth.

I hate guests who can’t make conversation.
If you accept an invitation to a party you have an obligation to be ready to converse. My good friend, well, friend… well, acquaintance… okay, Barbara Walters says you should always have four good stories to tell at a cocktail party. I say three will do, but only if all three of them involve major celebrities who have had explosive colitis in public places.

I hate people who don’t turn off their cell phones at parties
because there’s always some ass who will call you. In my case it’s the pope. The man doesn’t leave me alone. How many times do I have to hear the excuse, “Joan, we
all
had to join the Hitler
Youth, it wasn’t a choice; if it was up to me I would have joined B’nai B’rith.”

I hate people who are early to parties.
I think of them as premature
conversators
. (And yes, I know “conversators” is not a word; I’m just pandering to an urban demographic.) If I invite you to dinner at seven and you arrive wildly early, let’s say six fifty-nine, I may still be getting dressed, doing my hair or having a face-lift. So before accepting an invite, learn to tell time.

I hate people who don’t know when to leave the party.
If you don’t have a mild case of Asperger’s syndrome, you have no excuse to not pick up the social cues that it’s time to leave. Simple things like the food is all gone, or the servants have finished cleaning and are back in the basement tied to the radiators, or I’m upstairs in my bra and panties, rinsing my falsies and waxing my legs. Pay attention. Get out.

I hate people who think their medical condition is table talk.
Do not show up at an event with any postoperative wounds that require changing. If you reek of salve, stay home.

I hate people who don’t listen or pay attention.
When an invitation says, “No gifts, please,” that means, “No gifts, please.” If you’re not a member of the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the Stasi or the Penn State football team, chances are no one is speaking to you
in some secret code that can only be cracked by an enigma machine. I’m specific when I send out an invitation, so if you bring me a gift when I asked you not to, I’m now in the position of having to scrounge around to find
you
a gift. And that’s a horrible position to be in—almost as bad as double penetration. What am I going to find to give you, an old bra? “That belonged to Marilyn Monroe! Look! One of Joe DiMaggio’s pubic hairs is still caught in the underwire!”

I hate people who bring lousy gifts to a party.
A gift is supposed to be a nice gesture, not a showstopper. Candles, coffee-table books and French chocolates are lovely ideas—and I can re-gift them before you even sit down. Here are some things
not
to give a hostess:

A litter of piglets

An ugly orphan (It’s hard enough to love even the pretty ones; don’t bring me Mr. Uggo.)

Memory albums (You say, “Let’s look at this together!” I say, “Let’s pretend we have Alzheimer’s and not waste the time.”)

Crabs or any other communicable disease

Cheap wine (Unless the hostess is a moron, in which case it’s okay. “Vintage, four o’clock? Why, that was a very good time.”)

A vibrator (Very tough to re-gift—even if you wash it.)