I hear they are making a porn version of the Roseanne show (as if the original with me parading my svelte two-hundred-and-thirty-pound love goddess bod hither and yon wasn’t sexy enough), and that prompts my hastened retirement from show business.
I hope they do something to try to stop the porning of everything. I don’t like it! I guess if people feel the need to sexualize their fat neighbors, though, who am I to stop them? It’s an idea whose time has come. Fat women are the hottest of the hot, after all. You know you won’t get hungry with a fat girl around! The gal playing me in the porn version is Asian, of course. It’s no accident. I am thrilled for the Jewish people that many of us can pass for Asian, especially in our old age. All old Jewish women look just like Mao Tse Dung, I’ve noticed.
Speaking of Jews, one night, my sister and I met up with Sammy Davis Jr. at Patsy’s restaurant in New York City. Mr. Davis was entertaining his family in an elegant manner in a private room upstairs, and they were gracious enough to excuse him for a moment to come out and greet the likes of yours truly. He said the most awesome words to me—words that I would be embarrassed to print here for fear that prying, inquiring minds might suggest that I am immodest in my old age. It simply isn’t true, assholes! But Sammy and I and my sister got into some kind of a Hebraic contest of who could be the most gracious of all Jews, which is a thing all Jews like to do when meeting other Jews. It’s in the Talmud; look it up sometime!
Here’s what happened: After Sammy said the most flattering things in honor of the message I was bringing to mankind, Sis piped up with “Excuse me one moment, sister dear, if you will. Did I just hear Mr. Jewish Chocolate God of awesome unparalleled genius and talent, such as has never graced our people, the Jews, before in its international scope of brotherhood and justice, say to my own sister, that he, as a man, indeed understands that the Power of the Mother is the Power of Hashem? I must say that now that I have heard Mr. Sammy Davis Jr. say these things, I am even more in awe of this great and wonderful man, which is you, sir!”
So I had to top that, and top it I did, folks. I said, “For Mr. Sammy Davis Jr., the man who birthed the civil rights movement almost single-handedly, to call me a true original, is to me the greatest moment in my life as a Jew. I want to say, God bless you, sir, Mr. Sammy Davis Jr. You are a song-and-dance man, a comedian, an actor, and are, therefore, a quadruple threat to agents and producers and talent everywhere! Yet you, my most humble Jewish brother, are also a shining light, an avatar, a bodhisattva, and a messenger of peace! I am beyond honored, sir,” and then I kissed his ring.
But Sammy wasn’t finished yet. He then said, “Before I return to my wonderful family in the other room, I must also say that the two of you, sisters who love and care about each other, are wonderful representatives for the strength and the love of family. May your lives be long and happy. To joy!” And with that, he took a drink from his glass and went back to join his family. That was the pinnacle of all my childhood show business dreams!
I still think fondly of all of it—meeting Johnny Carson and Rodney Dangerfield, drinking with Phyllis Diller and Bob Hope, speaking to Carol Burnett and Joan Rivers and Virginia Graham and so many others. God, it was fun! The most unforgettable woman I ever met, besides all the other amazing women I have met—Madonna, Hillary Clinton, and so on—was this Chinese fortune-teller in L.A.’s Chinatown. This is what she very loudly told me, after I handed her twenty bucks: “YOOO TOOO TELPICH! YOU DO WHUT YOU HUBBAND TAY! HE NO GOA DO WHUT YOOO TAY!” And then she laughed like a hyena. I asked her to repeat her words, and she repeated them verbatim, only much louder. I gave her some extra money and asked her to repeat them for a third time, and she did. I understood her the last time, too—“You are too selfish. You should do what your husband says for you to do. He is not going to do what you say to do.”
I said, “Lady, that’s why I don’t have a fucking husband and why I don’t want another one ever again!” Then I laughed my ass off.
Recipe for Laughter
One part unconscious,
Two parts logic.
Strain through smooth cheesecloth,
Then take the strained extract,
Add wry and spread thin on
Those who have thick bread.
Comedy changes rich people, I have found,
And it saves the poor.
Chapter 14
Marriage, Cheatin’, and Dirty Dogs—This Ain’t a Country Song
Famous serial adulterers just keep climbing out of the clown car that is our “culture” and onto the tabloid covers and our TV screens. From presidential candidate to late-night talk show host, from world-class athlete to husband of America’s Sweetheart (I thought I was America’s Sweetheart!), the only thing they have in common is their well-known names (or those of their wives) and the fact that you’d think they’d all have known better. Not necessarily should they have known better than to cheat, but to think they’d keep it a secret in this scandal-driven, gossip-hungry world—I mean, come on, guys!
Before I just go and unload on these dirty dogs, I have to represent like the modern woman I am and say a few things that might not sound like something worthy of an American sweetheart, but who knows: Maybe some men, at least (and cheating women), might like me more after this. I’m not one for making excuses for people who break serious promises, especially the kind that bring the emotional and other consequences (gunplay) that come in the wake of cheating on a spouse or committed partner. What I am saying, though, is maybe it’s time to poke around in the embers of the Sexual Revolution and see if any of them throw a little light on the causes of all this betrayal and heartbreak and condemnation and all the rest of that painful crap.
I’ve thought for a long time that there are probably a whole lot of people who shouldn’t be married or even in any kind of monogamaniacal relationship. Making grand pronouncements about never sleeping with another human being besides the one you’re locking things in with on your wedding day may have been a great idea back in the day, but lots of people used to die of old age in their forties, too, and lots of people never ventured beyond their little villages. I mean, aside from marriage, how many other important aspects of our lives do we try to live in accordance with arrangements that were invented thousands of years ago? Maybe by now you’re thinking: What the hell? Roseanne, a woman who liked marriage so much that she did it three times by the time she was in her forties, is now talking it down? Very funny, reader whose mind I’m reading!
Seriously, though, maybe it’s time to just let relationships be what they are as they unfold and as they’re agreed upon by the couple, after some superserious, realistic considerations. Maybe asking everybody to relate to the opposite sex in exactly the same way might be an idea that has since expired. I know I won’t make any friends among those who have a stake in what I call “The Wedding Industrial Complex,” but I have to be honest. I’m not looking to take jobs from people who make wedding gowns for a living, and I don’t want to close down factories that produce those lovely garters that brides toss over their shoulders, or even reduce the workload of divorce lawyers, but come on, people! I mean, when something fails more than it succeeds, it’s time to at least reconsider the institution of marriage, don’t you think?
More than half of all marriages fail; you’ve heard the statistics. When we hear that lovely sentiment from young marriage-minded women that goes, “I just want to have that ONE special day when it’s all about me,” somebody should tell them, “Honey, chances are you’re going to have a couple of those. You may wish you’d saved some money and energy for a second or third ’one special day.’”
And before anyone asks the magic question “Roseanne, you insane, blasphemous lunatic, what about THE CHILDREN? THE CHI-HIL-DREN?” I ask, “Well, what about them?” I just quoted the statistic; if more than half of marriages end in divorce, then guess what? Half the kids are living with divorced parents. My kids were children of divorce and they’ve turned out great! Okay, well, mayb
e my kids aren’t the best example. I’m kidding, of course; they’re kind, decent people. Sure, they still have festering resentment for me because I left their dad, and they’ve carried it around and nurtured it for close to two decades. But they take it less personally since I’ve dumped two more husbands since then. They’ve matured, and they know, deep down in their hearts, that if they want to stay in the will, they need to forgive, accept, and move on.
The psychic in me hears you saying something else now: “When are we going to get to the good, scandalous, gossipy part, where we rag on the dirty, cheating men-dogs?” Well, you know I love a good gossip session as much as the next three people combined, but I’ve had to reconsider a few things as the wisdom of age comes over me, along with the thought of how much money and perfectly good booze I wasted on weddings with the wrong husbands.
Okay, back to the dirty sex part. Now, I’m sure as hell not going to excuse or condone dishonesty; if you’re in a monotonous—I mean, monogamous—relationship, you need to honor the promise you’ve made to be faithful, and that’s that. None of this “I’m mostly monogamous” crap I’ve heard people say. I’d like to see their face when they find out that their temporary love interest is mostly pregnant.
Inevitably, people look at whoever is the Cheating Dog of the Week in the scandal rags or on the tabloid shows, and ask, “Why in the world do those awful men, those dogs, cheat when they have a perfectly lovely wife (girlfriend, fiancée) whom they should be showering with that physical attention?” Men do it for the same reasons that dogs do it—because they’re drawn to the sheer pleasure and excitement that makes sex as fun as it was when they first got with the significant other they’re cheating on. And, staying with the dog comparison for a minute, let’s remember the “hard” fact that dogs do it when there are females in heat around. Sometimes their bitches are not so readily available, and the horny doggy “suitor” has to climb a fence with a few strands of barbed wire strung across the top at great risk to his pesky ’nads, or swim through a flaming oil slick out at sea, but his targeted, temporary lady love is always putting out a biosignal that turns him into a furry heat-seeking lust missile.
For every dirty, cheating, heterosexual man there’s not just a betrayed woman left in his wake, but one or more women who are his partner(s) in crime! The tired old idea that they only stray when they’re not getting what they want at home is bullshit, at least in a whole lot of cases. There are plenty of red-blooded women who are more than willing to go for just about anything that their guy can dream up (if it doesn’t hurt too bad, leave a scar, or burn the house down), not that I’d know from experience (wink!).
The question shouldn’t be: Why do people want to have sex with somebody besides their sanctioned partner after a certain amount of time? For some people, the “certain amount of time” probably begins on day one. Rather, I think the question should be: Why not put off getting married unless you are absolutely sure you’ll never yield to the temptation to stray if and when the opportunity arises? People who aren’t man or woman enough to face that question and give an honest answer probably shouldn’t be getting married or making a serious pronouncement about the future of their urges and what they’re going to not do about them. They sure as hell better be sure before they ask me to change my plans, show up for their wedding, and bring a present. Now that’s something I’m sure about!
So why do people screw up (pun alert) one of the biggest commitments in life? Why do people get married who shouldn’t? There are a few reasons why even people with lots of options decide to limit them—people like rich celebrities, for example. Even though they may have tons of money and willing sex partners, they still may not be happy (poor babies!).
Truthfully, being happy may qualify as a sign of mental illness, I’ve decided. I mean, if you’re spending lots of time skipping around, clicking your heels, and smiling till your face hurts (or thinking you should be), you’re not paying attention to the real world. I’m not suggesting you should be bummed out constantly, but get real. Unfortunately, getting real is the last thing that a world that runs on advertising wants you to do, and marriage is sort of like a product—a megaproduct, in fact. That’s why it gets “bought” when a single celebrity, or any wealthy, privileged person, male or female, eventually comes to the logical conclusion that money and the things it can buy, and even the fawning attention of the opposite sex, doesn’t make them “happy” around the clock. What else is left for them to try once they’ve gone down the hedonist highway as far as it takes them?
The answer, usually, is the marriage-and-family myth—you know, the sugary, oversold one that we hear from cradle to grave. Sure, you’re loaded and you get all the attention you can handle, but as the story goes, there’s nothing like the wondrous thrill of finding that one magical someone who will “complete you” (or some other mostly nonsensical notion like that) and with whom you can raise a happy little family—happy, happy, happy—happily ever after. I’m not saying that it never happens, but people shouldn’t try to use it to cure their lack of appreciation for what they already have, or to fill some sense of lack that they shouldn’t expect another human being to completely fix for them. It won’t be cured by entering into the most serious and complex relationship you can opt into, dude! It works just fine for some people, but some people win the lottery, too; that doesn’t mean you should count on winning the lottery to pay your bills.
I’m not saying that marriage isn’t an awesome thing for lots of people, all things considered. It’s just that a lot of people don’t consider it carefully enough. Finding out, after you’re married, that having your freedom—socially, sexually, however you want to put it—wasn’t so bad after all makes you wonder why you gave it up in the first place.
I really didn’t start this little part of the book with the desire to bad-mouth monogamy. I’ve practiced it for most of my adult life. I’m choosing my words carefully: I didn’t say all my adult life or even all my married life; I did some straying. It started out as revenge for being cheated on, but turned into something like a “calling” for a while. You can read about it in my second book—it’s old news. But in the face of all the scandalous headlines that are considered news today, remember to think twice before you do anything you might wish you hadn’t. Take it from me—I know what I’m talking about.
Recipe for Disaster
For every part True Believer,
Mix in two parts
Appetite for Destruction.
Add beer and wedding rings.
Chapter 15
Love and Marriage
This year will mark the eighth wedding that I have planned, executed, and paid for in my lifetime. My own weddings are so far in the dim mists of the past that they seem like they almost never happened—and oh, were that only true, most of my life would have gone along much better for me.
I organized and paid for my kids’ dad’s second wedding. He got married on my now defunct talk show; I forced my third husband to marry me on my show, too, but basically did it for the ratings. Forcing my then-husband to marry me on my show for ratings basically destroyed that marriage, but I count that wedding even though it seems a little off. Anytime I get to dress up in a wedding gown or bridal outfit counts, since that is the whole reason to have a wedding at all. It’s each girl’s show business moment, and she gets a whole year to act out all the fantasies of her childhood and make her mother go into hock in order for her to do it. It’s a young girl’s perfect revenge on her mother. As a mature woman, once you see how smitten your daughter is with the man she is marrying and all that happy horseshit about living together in perfect harmony, your septic tank of toxic dysfunctional memories may be full and ready to spew.
I want to start having big wedding gown balls, where all the little girls get to show up and wear one, be walked down the aisle by a handsome male escort, and have a blast without having to actually live with the asshole afterward. That’s the part that is just too, too horrible even to th
ink about. I will forever be haunted by the faces my exes made when they orgasmed, and knowing that they saw my face during that unfortunate time is enough to make me want to gouge out my own eyes with a rusty spoon. Ugh! I wish I could say that I faked them all, but alas, shit just happens sometimes, usually with the wrong people around you.
The last of my daughters to marry, as we old Jewish ladies say, was my middle daughter, Jessica, who got married on June 13, 2008. To say that I breathed a sigh of relief once she got a man to take her off of my tired hands would be an understatement. Now she would have a man to blame everything on instead of me; I rejoiced.
I must admit that I married men just to have someone to blame for everything that went wrong in my life, as a lot of Jewish gals do. Sometimes you feel so sorry for that man, knowing that the way his wife treats him is not the poor dear’s fault at all. However, that wasn’t the case with my second husband. I could prove that everything was indeed his fault, and that he still feels no shame at all about the cheating and lying and the actual harm he caused me. But the frightening thought that I had done the whole thing to myself by choosing unsuitable partners (talk about towing the line on the gag order!) overtakes my desire to blame others. I would fall in love with the first guy who ever looked at me twice. I never shopped around; I just settled and made do. The first time I married a guy it was because he had no cats.
The first wedding other than my own that I planned was my youngest daughter’s, Jenny. She was the first to marry (I sound like Tevya in Fiddler on the Roof with this, don’t I?), and she married her little brother’s best buddy from high school in a Las Vegas ceremony on December 20, 1998. My son-in-law, now he’s a delight. I shouldn’t even call him a son-in-law; I think of him just like a son—another unemployed, hostile, disrespectful son. He and I get along pretty well most of the time. He’d been hanging out at my house since he was fourteen years old, so he was used to the way I run things.
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