The Funny Thing Is... (11 page)

“Gosh, Sarah. Have you gained a lot of weight, or what? You’re so puffy.”

“Boy oh boy, that breath of yours is something else. I’m about to pass out. Seriously, that has to be the worst breath ever.

“Has your ass always been that flat or am I just noticing it now for the first time?”

I’ll tell you what’s really bad—going up to your friend whom you haven’t seen in a while and saying, “Oh my God, you’re pregnant!” and they’re not. I’ve done that, and I’ll tell you—the look on his face! He looked at me blankly and said, “As far as I know, men can’t have babies.”

I tried to cover, but it was no use. “Oh, I thought I read somewhere they can.”

How many people can honestly say they’re completely honest? Not too many. That’s why people have to put their hand on a Bible and take an oath to testify in court. Everyone just assumes that people lie. We have to say “I swear to God” or “I swear on my mother’s life, may God strike me dead!” if we really want to be believed.

I really never lie. I don’t—I swear to God. (Like you have to—like God doesn’t know the truth!) I must admit, though, I do lie to my Lifecycle. I lie right to its control panel. It says, “Enter program/fitness.” I push
ENTER
. Then it says “age” and I punch in “35,” and I push
ENTER
. I don’t want the machine to give me a workout for a forty-five-year-old.

We want to believe people are being honest when they announce, “I have something important to say.” I know I do, because I use it as a cue to turn on my hidden tape recorder. It’s quite a clever ruse, actually, because if instead they told the truth and declared, “I have something to say that’s so dull, so tedious, it’ll make you wish you didn’t have ears,” who’d listen?

When it comes to clear communication, these useless phrases, expressions, and cliches aren’t really up to snuff. Whatever that means. Let’s just say that people say a lot of things that are ridiculous.

For some reason, when people try to cheer you up or point out that things could be worse, they say all sorts of stupid stuff. This is one somebody told me: “I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet.” Um, okay, what do you say to that? Yes, it’s terrible he has no feet, but that doesn’t change the fact that the other guy doesn’t have any shoes and the guy with no feet doesn’t need shoes. The guy with feet does. I mean, are we supposed to feel sorry for the guy with no feet? Because I’ll tell you, I saw a guy on TV who only had a torso. Didn’t even have a head.

And how about theses doozies?

1. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

2. Adversity builds character.

3. God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.

I’ve revised those sayings to make them more accurate:

1. What doesn’t kill you puts you in a whole lot of pain and makes you cry a lot and want to crawl into a hole forever and live with rodents.

2. Adversity builds character. Translation: You become bitter and angry and then people hate you even more.

3. God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle… unless God’s in on it and doesn’t like you either.

It comes down to the fact that people love to talk. Heck, I’ve made a career out of it. We delight in the sound of our own voices—especially those cheerful voices that yell out “Careful!” right after you stumble. If those people were truly looking out for us, wouldn’t they have said “careful”
before
we tripped? A warning like that is as pointless as a photographer telling a pair of newlyweds that they both have spinach in their teeth immediately
after
taking their picture. Yes, Alanis, that’s
way
worse than rain on your wedding day.

What’s even worse is the new trend of saying “Ya know what I mean?” Often, people say it after each and every sentence. “Ya know what I mean?” It’s used so much it’s become one word: “Yaknowwhatlmean?” People who use it seem unsure if they’re being understood correctly. I admire that. I always repeat back what they have said to ensure I’ve comprehended.

“Now, what I
think
you’re saying is that you’re thirsty, but I’m only saying that because you just said you
were
thirsty, but I might have misinterpreted. You could’ve been cryptically explaining to me the genetic code of the common housefly, and if that’s the case, no, Idon’tknowwhatyamean.

Verbal padding is everywhere, but my biggest pet peeve is when someone asks, “Can I ask you a question?” Okay, first of all, that
was
a question. Do you want to ask me
another
question? This will be your second, and that’s my question limit, so make it a good one. You can waste even more time and money (yes, time
is
money) by responding with, “That depends on what the question is.” Now, let’s do the math here. (Remember, one minute of personal time can be worth up to 75 cents!) “Can I ask you a question?” How would you know if it’s the kind of question you’d care to answer unless you actually heard it? You can’t. Anyway, it’s not like you’re at a press conference …

“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that question at the present time.”

“But all I asked was, ‘Do you know the way to San Jose?”

“I’m sorry, but unless you’re Dionne Warwick I have no response.”

“But I
am
Dionne Warwick!”

And so it goes…

So for the good of all humankind I suggest that we liberate ourselves from these empty expressions and wasted words. For your reference, here’s an incomplete list of phrases I kindly ask that nobody say around me anymore:

“Stop and smell the roses.”

Well, what if you’re allergic to roses?

“Wake up and smell the coffee.”

What if you drink tea? What then, Einstein?

“Happy as a clam”

Okay, if clams are so happy, then why do people “clam up” when they get mad?

“Heaven’s to Betsy;”

“For the love of Pete”

Who is Pete? Who is Betsy? Do they know each other?

“Take care.”

“Take care” is short for “take care of yourself.” What does “take care” mean? Where’s the care? I’ll take it. Pretty soon it’ll be just “take.” Maybe that’s what the British are doing with “ta-ta.” It’s short for “take care”—”ta-ta.” Or maybe it’s some sort of potato dish. I don’t know much about the British, I just know they enjoy wearing hats and trench coats and eating boiled meats.

“Have a nice day.”

Cashiers and other service-industry people are forced by their supervisors to say this to every customer. The cashiers don’t mean it. What they’re really saying is, “Please, God, I don’t want to get fired.”

“He (or she) wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Everyone hurts flies. Someone realized the hatred of flies is so universal that they actually came up with a device to kill them. They tried to disguise it with a nice gentle name: a “fly swatter.” No, it’s a fly
squasher
. Nobody buys it just to swat at them playfully.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

Aren’t families dysfunctional enough as it is without bringing innocent animals into the picture?

“The sun’ll come out tomorrow.”

Yes, but only if you’re the one who wrote the song of the same name for the hit musical
Annie
. In that case, the sun comes out for you every time you receive your big fat royalty check.

“Nothing is forever.”

However, diamonds apparently
are
forever. They also happen to be a girl’s best friend. Man’s best friend? The much less flashy
dog
.

“You win some, you lose some.”

Although, I do have the habit of saying this one during sex.

“That J. Lo is a hot little number!”

(I know that’s not technically an expression, but my mom said it once and I’d prefer she never say it again.)

Well, that’s “the long and the short of it.”

See what I’ve done here? I’ve wasted your time by using that phrase: “the long and the short of it.” If I’ve included it as a way to quickly wrap up this chapter I’ve defeated the purpose. Not to mention the words I’m now using to explain this to you. (So far 56, plus the words in these parentheses, which brings us to a grand total of 76, but who’s counting?) On top of that, I haven’t made any sense. How can something be long and short? It can’t. It’s physically impossible. You can’t be fat
AND
skinny or hot
AND
cold or ugly
AND
pretty. In the seventies, my mother did have some orange shag carpet that was pretty ugly, but that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.

My mother called me the other day while she was cleaning out the clutter in her house. She said, “Ellen, I’m making room for my bowling trophies and I need you to come get some of your old stuff. I’ve boxed up your model horses, rock polisher, Hot Wheels, eight tracks, scrapbooks, and clothes. I need you to come get them. They’ll bring back some nice memories—Oh look, I see your old sailor top in here.”

Yes, it’s true, I had a wool sailor top—you know, the dress blues—that I would wear all the time. I had a white one too. I wore that one when I went on leave. No, I wasn’t in the Navy. I just liked uniforms. When I look back on the stuff I used to wear, I wonder why somebody didn’t try to stop me. Just a friendly warning, “You
may
regret this,” would have been fine.

I picked up at least a dozen boxes from my mother’s house. I don’t remember owning enough bolo ties to fill a box, but apparently I did. And piles of pictures—rolls and rolls of photos. It’s one thing to touch and feel a polyester blend blouse, but to see a photo of me actually wearing it—proof, if you will—was inexplicably more disturbing.

I’m sure the Bee Gees look back fondly on their black poly/rayon/fire hazard shirts and think, “Oh, yeah, this is when we became millionaires.” But when I look at my wearable fire hazard, my thoughts aren’t as glamorous—they entail a desk job at Hertz and wine coolers at Doc McGee’s Crab Hut. That was the one fantastic thing about those shirts: They went from day to evening, which is always a fashion plus. Who wants to go home and change, thereby increasing their chances of missing happy hour?

Why did I save all those clothes? I felt like that guy with amnesia from
Memento
. I’d pick up a pair of stirrup pants and an image would flash into my head: me standing in front of a mirror thinking,
These are really slimming
. Then all memories of that outfit and time would disappear.

I started combing the photo albums, mesmerized by this girl who was in no shape or form the person I am today. Lots of shots of me and pleats. Me wearing pleats, me enjoying pleats. Pants, jackets … Pleats on jackets? That’s clearly wrong. Yet I thought they looked great. In one picture I am standing with this woman I worked with and we are both wearing what looks like trousers from a zoot suit. I added a backwards snap cap. Plus, the top of a Navy uniform. Were we on the lam? Maybe on the way to an audition for
Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo
? It didn’t even look like me.

Several other photos revealed me wearing a series of paisley vests. In one I had a watch in the pocket. Let me just say that one more time. I had a pocket with a watch in it. I had a pocket watch. Apparently I waited for trains a lot. That’s the only reason I can think of for needing a watch in my pocket. On the other hand, that’s really all those vest pockets were good for; maybe I thought it was a shame to let them go to waste. Either that or I used to be a hypnotist.

It started to occur to me, if I’m horrified and possibly scarred for life after looking at these pictures now, in twenty years will I look back in shock on the clothes that were in my closet today? Will I think,
Why in the world would I wear Puma running shoes with dirty denim cargo pants
? No, of course not. That is a perfectly timeless outfit. In fact, it’s retro. It’s back for a second round. Maybe that’s why I saved all those clothes at my mother’s place—just in case they made a comeback.

I pulled out some painter’s pants. I don’t think they’re back yet, but they reminded me I need to paint the hallway. There were lots of thrift store men’s blazers too. I checked the pockets and found a ticket stub to an Elvis Costello concert—his glasses are still in, but not the jacket.

How do people decide what’s back? More important, how do people decide what’s never coming back or what clothing is over? For instance, unless you were going to dance class, when did it become not okay to leave your house with jazz shoes on?

Obviously, when the time came, the upper fashion echelon signed a bill—or proclaimed a style exodus, or sent out carrier pigeons, or maybe they just phoned each other, I don’t know—saying a decision had been made regarding bolero jackets or parachute pants, and that they were never to be worn again.

How do the average people of the world receive this message, this change in the fashion tide? I don’t recall anybody ever telling me, “You need to take off that zipper shirt and put one on with the neck and sleeves cut off of it. Immediately! They’re watching!”

It was always kind of a slow metamorphosis for me. I’d find myself walking around and noticing nobody was wearing the things I had on or had hanging in my closet. I’m sure people were secretly pointing at me.

“Look how high her shoulders are.”

“Her buttons are huge!”

“What, is she going to lift weights with that wide belt on?”

“I guess she didn’t get the newsletter.”

As I sifted through the pictures, I found that the older I got the less my clothes stood out. Then I looked down at what I was wearing that moment: a long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of 501s, an outfit that has been around since the Gold Rush. Yet I wasn’t wearing this or a variation of these timeless pieces in any of the photos, and I know I have owned them at every stage of my life. Maybe subconsciously I only had my picture taken when I was wearing something that would later embarrass me. Or maybe I thought,
Hey this is a great outfit
—
I’d better document it for a future retrospective. The world will want to see
. Just like the Jackie O exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum last year. A museum showing one woman’s wardrobe. Hmm. Turns out she didn’t wear a lot of bolo ties.