The Book of Joan: Tales of Mirth, Mischief, and Manipulation

by Melissa Rivers

  All joking aside, the rules of etiquette in Hollywood are vastly different from those in the real world. We’ve all heard stories of stars behaving badly—and I’m not talking about the overpaid-athlete-groping-the-flight-attendant bad, I’m talking the if-anyone-else-behaved-that-way-they’d-be-socially-ostracized-and-thrown-out-of-the-diner bad. For example, it’s urban legend that during the filming of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, in order to “get in touch with his character,” Johnny Depp didn’t brush his teeth or wash his hair. I’m surprised his costars didn’t get in touch with the Health Department. Can you imagine that in any other business? Can you imagine if fat Lenny sitting in the cubicle next to yours at work did that? You’d be down at HR faster than you can say, “Lather. Rinse. Repeat.”

  Truth be told, my mother didn’t care if you were nominated for an Oscar or worked for Oscar Mayer—she felt that if everyone were taught good or at least appropriate manners, we’d be living in a much more polite and civilized society.

  * * *

  Children Should Be …

  You know that old axiom “Children should be seen and not heard”? My mom had her own version of it: “ Pretty children should be seen and not heard, and homely children should not be seen or heard”—which meant our family gatherings were not filled with the raucous laughter of children but more like the sounds of a 60 Minutes interview, culminating with “Don’t try to sell me that ‘inner beauty’ bullshit. Just call the electrolysis guy already.”

  The Gift of the Grab

  When Crown Books told me they were planning on releasing this book on Mother’s Day, I was a little uncomfortable. Perhaps that’s because they made me the offer right after my mother’s funeral—and I mean right after. I was walking down the aisle of Temple Emanu-El when a strange woman (who I later found out was to become my fabulous editor) pressed her card into my hand and made the international hand sign for “Call me!” I was so shocked that I almost waited until I was in the limo to pick up the phone. She said to me, as though she’d known me forever, “Melinda, I’m so sorry for your loss. How ’bout a Mother’s Day book?” My first thought was “Are you kidding me?” But my second thought was “What would my mother have done?” So, naturally, my third thought was “Sell, baby, sell! This book would be a perfect Mother’s Day gift.” And I say “perfect” because not only is it a fun homage to my mom, but also, now that she’s gone, she can’t return it to Amazon in exchange for Giuliana Rancic’s new memoir (which my mother knew would refer to her in only the most glowing of terms).

  On the topic of gifts, when I was a little girl my mother told me that there were three things everybody liked getting: (1) good news, (2) good gifts, and (3) good head. I knew exactly what she meant by the first two, and when she felt I was at an appropriate age (fifth grade), she explained the last one to me. (She also pointed out that if I were really good at number three, I’d never have to worry about number two. God, she was wise.)

  My mother believed that gift giving was as important an ancient art as Kabuki, jujitsu, and leeching. She knew when to give a gift and when not to give a gift (shower, yes; shiva, no), and more important, when to give an actual gift versus a gift card. For example, at a wedding shower, it’s okay to give a pregnant bride a gift card to Babies R Us, but it’s not okay to give her a big T-shirt that reads, KNOCKED UP!

  My mom always said that in the world of show business, gift giving is more than just a nice way of saying, “Hello,” or “Thank you,” or “I’m thinking of you.” It’s actually a way of saying, “I’m thinking of me, and hopefully this gift I’m giving you will somehow benefit me when you’re casting your next film, TV show, or national commercial.”

  In the world of entertainment, gifting is especially important at the top, among the muckety-mucks and the boldface names. Studio and network heads always give their high-profile stars high-profile gifts, like a safari in Africa or a weekend in Bali, or twenty-eight days at Betty Ford. And the stars (at least the ones who’ve had tough-love therapists) usually give gifts to the important producers, who in turn sell them on eBay so they can use that money, instead of their own, to buy generic trinkets for their writers, runners, assistants, and secret girlfriends/boyfriends/dominatrices, and fetish models.

  It’s a challenge to buy gifts for celebrities or very rich people because (a) they already have everything, and (b) whatever you do buy for them, they can buy a better version of it for themselves, which means the gift has to be either very thoughtful or very specific.

  For example, my mother was a good friend of Prince Charles’s, which meant birthday shopping was a big dilemma. What do you buy for someone who owns Europe? A tea set? A toaster cozy? A garden gnome you found in SkyMall? Last year my mother came up with the perfect gift, something she knew Charles needed but didn’t have: a fifty-dollar gift certificate from Forever 21. Even if the prince didn’t use it himself, he could always tuck it away in his kilt to give spontaneously to one of Harry’s “girlfriends” as a thank-you-for-parting gift. My mother was nothing if not practical.

  She also had a sense of humor with regard to gift giving, especially with other comics. As many of you know, comedian Tracy Morgan was in a horrible car accident in June 2014 and was in the hospital for months. My mom liked Tracy, and since he wasn’t able to receive visitors right away, she wanted to send him a gift that would put a smile on his face. So she sent him a bouquet of dead flowers, with a card that read, “These flowers would’ve been dead anyway by the time you get out of the hospital.” She was told it not only put a smile on his face, but it actually made him laugh.

  My mother believed that the second most important trait in a good gift was thoughtfulness; expense is the most important. When Richard Burton bought Elizabeth Taylor that gigantic Krupp diamond, do you think Liz said, “Oh, Dick, it’s cute, but I was hoping for something more personal”?

  According to her, a thoughtful gift is simply something you know the recipient wants, not needs. Let’s say, for example, your uncle Lou needs a new kidney. That doesn’t mean you have to give him one. Instead, you know he’ll soon want a beautiful new fountain pen, so he can fill out his last will and testament.

  The only time expense takes a backseat in the gift department is Christmas. My mother taught me that holiday gifts don’t need to be expensive, just appropriate. Why spend a fortune at FAO Schwarz on a toy for your toddler when you know full well all the kid’s going to do is try to eat the box? (As my mother would say, “Do your own Jodie Foster joke here.”) You’d be much wiser to buy lots of toys at some discount store—the children won’t notice the difference, and besides, you’ll make all your money back in a class-action lawsuit when half the kids get sick from putting the cheap, Chinese-made game pieces in their mouths.

  There is an exception to this rule, however. Each year, there seems to be one hot gift that every child needs, wants, or must have or they’ll die. I’ll never forget the Tickle Me Elmo incident. One year my mother was on the Today show and they were doing a segment about the hottest, impossible-to-get kids’ toys of the year. Number one on the Hit Parade was the Tickle Me Elmo doll, which had sold out in twenty seconds. The only doll left in the New York metropolitan area was the one on display on the Today show set. My mother noticed Matt Lauer eyeing the doll covetously (probably for his own son, who is the same age as Cooper), so she made a beeline for it. According to a very unreliable witness (my mother), a pleasant interview quickly turned into a minor tussle and then into a UFC event. Matt and Mom both fell to the ground, wrestling each other to get at the doll. Suddenly my mother screamed, “My hip, my hip!” Matt, concerned that she really was hurt, regained his composure and bent down to help her up. With ninja-like reflexes, she grabbed the doll and ran. Long story short: Cooper got his Tickle Me Elmo, and Matt Lauer got a restraining order. Merry Christmas!

  Another thing my mother taught me was to be mindful of people’s religion when buying holiday gifts. Since Christians celebrate the birth of Christ, giv
ing a Christian a Kardashian sex tape with Kim moaning, “Oh, Jesus,” would not be a good idea. Similarly, because Muslims fast for the entire month of Ramadan, giving out baskets from the Carnegie Deli would be stupid. Jews celebrate Chanukah, so you can buy pretty much anything as long as you don’t buy it retail.

  The most important thing my mother said to me about holiday gift giving was “Never, ever buy a gift for a Buddhist. They are a kind and lovely and gentle people, but when you give a gift to a Buddhist, you have to thank them for taking it. The Buddhists may call this tradition, but honestly, Melissa, after spending six hours on line in Talbots buying a saffron muumuu for Cousin Sheila (who at sixty-five changed her name to Rama Hama), I call it bullshit.”

  My mother always felt that gift giving was more than just an art; it was also a means of communicating. It can be direct or indirect, subtle or, quite frankly, passive-aggressive. “Passive-aggressive?” you ask. Well, yes!

  For example, let’s say my mother sent you a set of very expensive scented candles. You might be thinking, “That fragrance will keep our house smelling fresh and inviting.” What my mother was actually saying was, “I’m not setting foot in your place again until the odor of cat urine is gone.” If my mother gave you a free session with a closet organizer, she was saying, “Your clothes have to go. You dress like an old, cheap whore.” And if you received a gym membership, it meant one of two things: either (a) you were fat, and she was embarrassed to be seen with you, or (b) you needed to get laid, so she’d paid one of the gym’s trainers to toss you a quickie because everyone’s sick of you being such a bitch.

  I still tear up thinking about how my mother was always looking out for others. She was such a giver. One year, for the holidays, she decided to give each member of our entire staff a free cosmetic procedure—within reason. (Don’t forget: we’re Jews, and to be honest, a couple of them needed way more than one procedure in order not to frighten children or to be seen in daylight.) I thought it was a horribly insulting gift to give people. My mother, though, thought she was giving the greatest gift ever. Turns out, she was right. They loved it! I haven’t seen this much excitement since Dennis Rodman negotiated a peace treaty with the North Koreans.

  So, gentle reader, what have we learned? Yes, sometimes people give you gifts because they love you. But other times they give you gifts because they’d love you more if you were thinner or prettier. And sometimes they give you gifts because someone gave the gifts to them and they didn’t like them.

  Which brings me to the old expression “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” My mother disagreed. She felt regifting was.

  First, let me be clear: there’s nothing wrong with regifting. We’ve all received gifts that might not have been right for us but that we knew someone else would love. One year, I received an anonymous gift of a fur coat, which I found odd, because everyone who knows me knows I work for PETA and I don’t wear fur. When I opened the box, my mother’s eyes lit up. She said, “Oh my God! What are you going to do with that? You don’t wear fur!” Before I could answer, she had the coat on—and lo and behold, it fit her beautifully, as if it had been made just for her! And, coincidence of coincidences, her name was stitched on the inside! I said, “Mom, did you buy this coat for me just so I’d regift it to you?” With a look of feigned shock bordering on disdain, she said, “Is that what you think? I am hurt and appalled that you would think that—and I’ve buried the cost so deep in the books you’ll never be able to prove it.”

  You have to be careful when regifting; sometimes something can go terribly wrong. A famous TV personality who shall go nameless once gave a very, very expensive handbag to the senior producer of my mother’s show. The producer was beyond thrilled, couldn’t believe the gift she had received. She was on cloud nine—until she opened the bag up and looked inside. It was monogrammed: TO: [CELEBRITY WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS SO I DON’T GET SUED], YOU’RE A TRUE STAR! FROM: YOUR FRIENDS AT [A NETWORK I WON’T MENTION BECAUSE I WOULD LIKE TO WORK FOR THEM SOMEDAY]. There’s a lesson to be learned here: Treat regifting like a crime scene. Get rid of the evidence and bury the body. They should never know you were there.

  My mother always said that when it came to celebrities, it was less important what you gave them than what you didn’t give them. Here’s a copy of last year’s “What Not to Buy” list:

  What Not to Buy Certain Celebrities

  • Pair of shoes—Oscar Pistorius

  • Book on tape—Marlee Matlin

  • Chin-up bar—Sen. Mitch McConnell

  • Mirror—Stevie Wonder

  • DVD of Yentl—Mel Gibson

  • Condoms—Mrs. Duggar (too late!)

  • Salad Shooter—Rush Limbaugh

  • Library card—Sarah Palin

  • Books—Kanye West

  • Skateboard—Stephen Hawking

  Tips on Mother’s Day Gifts

  As both a daughter and a mother, I’ve learned a thing or two about giving good (read: appropriate) Mother’s Day gifts. Here are a few suggestions that I hope will help you in the coming years:

  • Never, ever, ever—I don’t care what kind of pressure you’re under, even if Dick Cheney’s standing over you with his waterboarding kit—give your mother a vacuum, a Salad Shooter, or any household item that either requires her to work or can be construed as self-serving. For example, you say, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! Here’s your new washer-dryer.” What she hears is “I’m thirty-five, not getting married anytime soon, and have no intention of doing my own laundry.” I learned this the hard way. I once bought my mother a steam iron for Mother’s Day. She thanked me by “allowing” me to sleep in the maid’s room for a week.

  • Buy something. Making a jewelry box out of Popsicle sticks is adorable—if you’re seven. If you’re old enough to be tried as an adult, you’re old enough to put together a couple of bucks and hit a mall.

  • Buy something that will make your mother feel good—a pair of fun, not-too-cheap earrings; a day of beauty at a local spa; a box of chocolates that says to her, “I Love You More Than My Birth Mom.”

  • Buy her something she’ll always remember—like a framed photo of the two of you together, or an autographed copy of a book by her favorite author, or a gift certificate for a consultation with the world’s best divorce lawyer.

  • Don’t buy a gift with an agenda. Last year my mother bought me three beautiful picture frames—complete with the photos of the lovely couples that had come with the frames. And in each photo, she’d cut out the woman’s face and taped my face in its place. Forget thoughtfulness; think of the effort that went into making that gift so special! I’m surprised the card didn’t read, “Happy Single Mother’s Day!”

  Readin’, Ritin’, and ’Rithmetic

  You can never be overdressed or overeducated.

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Unlike many of today’s anti-intellectual, pandering politicians, my parents believed that education was the key to a better life. I think part of the reason is that both my father’s and my mother’s parents were immigrants. My father was one of the children of the Holocaust.1 He was born in Germany in 1925 and lived there until the Nazis came to power and began their persecution of the Jews. His family fled to Denmark and then, when the Nazis marched in there, to Cape Town, South Africa. (South Africa proved to be a blessing for my father: it not only saved his life but also prepared him for life with my mother. It was his first experience with diamonds.)

  After the war my dad was sent to school in the United Kingdom and eventually came to the United States. A few years later he brought his parents over, too. Because his family had to move constantly, and lost everything every time, my father often reminded me, “Education is the one thing they can’t take away from you.”

  My mother’s father was a Russian peasant who came to America and worked his way through medical school. Her mother was from a well-to-do Russian family that, like my father’s parents, had to leave everything behind when they came her
e. So my mother and her sister, Barbara, learned the importance of education as a survival tool.

  My aunt Barbara may have been a genius. Perhaps not on the level of internationally acclaimed genius Stephen Hawking or self-proclaimed genius Kanye West, but she was brilliant. She taught herself Russian and became fluent in it in one summer, just because she wanted to. She graduated from Columbia Law School at the age of twenty. There was seemingly nothing she didn’t know, and most of it came naturally. And because she was so smart, during my mother’s entire life, within the extended family my mom was known as “Barbara Molinsky’s sister.” True to her competitive nature, rather than allowing the fact that Barbara was “the smart one” to depress or upset her, my mother only became that much more motivated to work her ass off in school.

  Which she did. Yet, from kindergarten and all the way through Barnard, no matter how smart she was or how hard she worked, she never conquered arithmetic—a gift she generously passed on to me.

  My mother (and I) could barely add and subtract. Her entire grasp of arithmetic can be summed up in one bit of advice she gave me when I was struggling in math class. She said, “Melissa, I can do tips and discounts, and figure out the number of gay men in an audience to make it a good show. That’s all the math you’ll ever need, unless you’re planning on being an accountant.”

  1 I hate the expression “children of the Holocaust.” It sounds like a new reality series on Bravo. Maybe it could have a sister series, Real Housewives of Treblinka.

  Some Things Never Change