I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It

by Rita Rudner

  “I didn’t think. I didn’t have to. We walked past the store and you pointed to it and said, ‘I want an expensive leather jacket,’ and then you said, ‘My belt is too big and I need new shoes.’”

  “I was just talking. I have all those things.”

  “But I was so certain that you said it because that’s what you wanted. I pointed to the earrings because I liked them, not for finger exercise.”

  He gave me a hug.

  “And I’m glad you like them.”

  “It’s not fair. I love them.”

  I removed myself from his sympathizing embrace.

  “Well, what did you want?” I asked.

  “A rare book.”

  “A rare book? You don’t have any rare books.”

  “I know. That’s why I wanted one.”

  Men!

  The good news is, I found a first-edition Raymond Chandler novel on the Internet and it arrived before Easter. He loved it, even though he’d read it before.

  Superficial Nightmares of the Overprivileged Woman

  I AM A TINY BIT ASHAMED TO ADMIT THIS, BUT lately I’ve been having superficial nightmares. I’ve been waking up in a cold sweat over the following:

  1. I splurge on a deluxe pedicure and the next morning I wake up to find the polish completely gone.

  2. I’m on the phone at the hairdresser’s and when I arrive home, I realize that I wasn’t paying attention and that he has parted my hair on the wrong side.

  3. My daughter refuses to wear pink.

  4. Robbers break in to my house and steal my expensive handbag.

  5. We’re on vacation and find out there is a special deal that includes breakfast and champagne at sunset and everyone was aware of it except us. The general manager is on vacation and no one has the authority to alter our vacation package.

  6. Inexplicably, the diamond ring my husband bought me for our fifteenth anniversary becomes cloudy. There is no remedy.

  7. Starbucks no longer makes low-fat lattes.

  8. There is no bottled water anywhere.

  9. I wake up to find a new building has been erected in front of my apartment window, totally blocking my view.

  10. My Jacuzzi is broken. There is no access panel door to be found and the plumber has to chip through the marble to gain access. After the motor is repaired, a match to the marble cannot be found and the entire surround has to be replaced. (This actually happened, and let me tell you, it was a nightmare.)

  Dining in the Dark

  “WHAT’S FOR DINNER?” MY HUSBAND ASKED.

  “It depends on what you want. We can have either Chinese, Italian, or Thai delivered. I’m very versatile,” I replied.

  “I have an idea. And don’t shoot me down—hear me out. Why don’t we venture out where the food actually lives, for a change?”

  “You mean you want us to go to the food instead of the food coming to us? Are you insane?” I retorted.

  “Rita, there are people who eat in restaurants on a regular basis.”

  “Maybe they’re homeless.”

  “No, these are people who get out of their sweatpants and into clothes that have zippers and order from waiters and waitresses.”

  “OK. Should we have Chinese, Italian, or Thai?”

  “We’re going to try something different. We’re going to eat in a trendy restaurant aimed at the desirable eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old age group,” my husband said, reaching for a magazine he had recently purchased featuring “The Top Ten Hottest Places to Eat in L.A.”

  “What if they don’t let us in? I hear they card people over forty now at these places. It will be so humiliating.”

  “I’ve already thought of that. I’m bringing a copy of our latest bank statement and a picture of our beach house. I feel we can overcome our age problem with our financial achievements.”

  “OK. First let me try to get a reservation in Trendyland.”

  “Call this number and try to sound young.”

  “Hello—I mean, hi—like, we’d like to book a table, like, for two…Like, for tonight at, like, seven…Well, when is the first open reservation?…Yes, we can come in three weeks, but we’re going to be mighty hungry…Yes, I’ll hold…OK, great—I mean, awesome…Yes, I realize how lucky we are…My name is Rudner…No, not Rubner, Rudner. D like in dysentery…Why do you need our phone number?…OK, but we’re not going to cancel, we know how lucky we are…Why do you need our credit card number? Are you going to charge us for the call?…OK, but I swear we’re not going to cancel…Yes, I’m still aware that we’re, like, very lucky…Thank you very much. We’ll see you then.”

  I hung up the phone.

  “We are so lucky. They’ve had a cancellation for tonight at ten-thirty.”

  “Ten-thirty? I thought you were pushing it asking for seven. We usually eat at six.”

  “Well, we can’t cancel. They’ll have us arrested.”

  “Great. So we’re going out to dinner half an hour after I go to sleep.”

  “This was your idea. I was happy with vegetable moo shu.”

  We whipped ourselves into a caffeine frenzy so as to stay awake past our bedtime and at ten o’clock backed our trendily jeaned selves and our car out of our garage and headed toward unfamiliar territory.

  “I’m glad we did this. We never go out at night. This is good,” Martin insisted, stifling a yawn.

  As we pulled up in front of the Japanese/Somalian restaurant a red-jacketed valet child opened the door for me.

  “Welcome to Auravooshi.”

  Martin handed the valet his car keys. The juvenile advanced our car three feet, got out, and closed the door.

  “I could have done that,” Martin whispered. “Then I wouldn’t have had to give a twelve-year-old the keys to my very nice car.”

  The young woman who greeted us at the hostess’s podium was clad in a black turtleneck minidress and wearing the sort of microphone mouthpiece employed by the likes of Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.

  “Are these singing waitresses?” I whispered to my husband.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered back, spotting a man on the restaurant floor wearing a black suit and apparently speaking into his breast pocket. “To me they look like they’re working for the CIA.”

  “Rudner. Party of two for ten-thirty,” I said politely.

  “The hostess’s lacquered red fish lips parted and said, “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  She then turned away and whispered something into her mouthpiece.

  Martin turned and whispered into my earpiece.

  “She’s telling someone we’re too old and to sit us in a dark corner. I don’t like it here. Let’s go.”

  “I told you, we can’t cancel. They’ll report us to the police.”

  “We’re not canceling. We showed up, they didn’t have our table ready, and we left. No judge will convict us.”

  We waited another ten minutes.

  “Hold on a second. They have our MasterCard number and our car. Maybe this is just a front and they’re out driving around and charging things to our credit card.”

  Just then a tattooed, multiply pierced, goateed CIA operative approached us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rubner? We have your table ready now. Follow me.”

  As we entered the spooky room, my attention was caught by a wall that appeared to be on fire.

  “That’s interesting,” I remarked.

  “It’s a new projection technique. There are only four reactive projectors in the world and we own two.”

  “Who owns the other two?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, the restaurant across the street,” he replied.

  I tripped over a large round object.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the beanbag chair.

  “Would you like to sit in our casual room or our table-dining room?”

  “As much as I’d like to eat off the floor, let’s try table dining,” my husband said.

  We felt our way to a long, low leather ban
quette situated in front of a sparsely set table. We wedged ourselves into the small space between them and then attempted to adjust our backsides on the cow-covered cushions.

  “Are you cool? Sometimes people your age need extra pillows for lumbar support.”

  “We’re very cool,” I replied, ignoring my spine’s plea for help.

  “Brish will be your waiter.”

  “Are you sure this wasn’t one of the Ten Most Uncomfortable Restaurants in L.A.?” I asked Martin as our escort disappeared into the darkness.

  A shadow appeared over our dimly lit table. In the gloom, I discerned the outline of a looming human figure.

  “Hello, my name is Brish. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about the menu.”

  “OK, Brish. Here’s the first one. Where is it?”

  “You’re sitting on it.”

  Evidently, a popular new game being played at restaurants around the country is Find the Menu. Sitting down for lunch with an old friend a few weeks ago, I reached for what I thought was the napkin under my silverware and sneezed into a list of foods available that day.

  Neither Martin nor I had brought a flashlight, so were unable to read our menus. I was therefore forced to utter a sentence I’d never imagined I would ever say.

  “We’re in your hands, Brish.”

  Brish proceeded to recommend and order his favorite dishes: a raw fish cocktail served in a martini glass, a whole fish cooked in a lampshade, and chocolate antennae for dessert.

  When we arrived back at our car, my husband tipped the valet, slid into an electronically repositioned seat, peered into a readjusted mirror, and turned on a rap station he’d never known his radio possessed.

  “He drove this car three feet. When did he have the time to @%^$#*& everything up?”

  Two hundred and fifty dollars later we were back home and hungry.

  “We did it,” my husband proclaimed proudly. “We went someplace new and tried something different.”

  “Yes, we did,” I replied. “Let’s never do it again.”

  * * *

  I’m a little compulsive about my weight. I weigh myself constantly. What I do is I slowly lower myself down onto the scale, while balancing from the shower curtain rod, and when I reach the weight I want to be, I black out.

  * * *

  Drive-By Hooting

  LET ME BEGIN BY ADMITTING TO YOU THAT I AM not a good driver. I learned the skill late in life, and to this day, before I start the engine I look down at my right foot and tell myself, The big one is the brake.

  That being said, I feel my driving is magnificent compared to what I see being perpetrated on the roads today.

  Maybe I’m simply unaware of this, but let me ask the question anyway: Are they selling cars without signals these days? I can’t tell whether the car makers are cheaper or whether people are just being frugal and don’t want to use up their signals. Maybe nowadays people are merely unwilling to offer the assurance a signal demands: “I might go left, I might go right. I’m just not ready to make a commitment.”

  Of course, I have the opposite problem. If I want to turn, I begin signaling three blocks ahead of the actual street in preparation for my eventual turn. I also confess to being one of those annoying drivers who forget to turn the signal off. I find the clicking comforting. It’s consistent and has a beat. It’s like a radio without the commercials.

  Oh, and speaking of music, I’d like to thank all of the considerate people driving on the roads today who are concerned that other people don’t have radios in their cars and so play theirs loud enough for everyone to hear. I’m especially appreciative when the bass is so loud that the sound carries into my bedroom while I’m asleep and I dream the world is blowing up.

  Why is the speed limit posted on signs along the nation’s highways no longer taken seriously? Recently, while I dutifully obeyed the sixty-five-miles-an-hour limit, the driver of the car behind me became increasingly agitated. I double-checked my speedometer and made sure I was traveling at the maximum speed. I ignored the hooting. A siren began to sound. I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed the impatient driver behind me was the Highway Patrol. He was gesturing at me to speed up. I pulled over and he sailed past. He wasn’t chasing anyone, either. I guess he just had to get to Starbucks in a hurry.

  Everybody is in a hurry. Recently a city bus with an accordion middle suddenly pulled out in front of me with no warning. It isn’t easy for one of these buses to maneuver. They are the manatees of the vehicle family. Admittedly, the driver of the bus did that for a reason. The reason was he was behind a bus and he didn’t like it. To me, if you’re a bus, you should accept that fact and stay behind a brother bus. It’s like my eighty-nine-year-old aunt not wanting to live in a retirement community with the old people. It’s a deal that must be done.

  I’d also like to point out the fact that honking doesn’t make cars disappear. Very often I’m stuck in traffic and suddenly I find myself in the middle of a horn concerto. I know horn honking makes people feel better temporarily, but it achieves so little in the long term. It’s not that other drivers have simply forgotten to move forward; the backup is usually caused by orange cones forcing cars into a single lane for no reason. I will say that there’s one situation when I actually like having people honk at me, and that’s when I’m waiting to make a left turn; that’s how I know the coast is clear and it’s time to turn.

  People are reluctant and indeed belligerent when it comes to admitting they have made a driving mistake. Let’s face it, driving is at best a series of near misses. I feel lucky every time I return to my house alive. In my driving life I’ve been involved in one traffic accident and hundreds of traffic incidents. An accident is a collision where there is either vehicle damage or someone is injured. An incident is when another driver is temporarily inconvenienced and swears at you. When I’m at fault in a traffic incident, I always mouth the words “I’m sorry.” Recently a car backed into me while I was exiting a shopping mall. Nobody was hurt and there was only microscopic damage to my front bumper. The driver of the vehicle that backed into me bolted out of his car and screamed, “I didn’t see you!”

  I just don’t know what my response to that accusation should have been. “Wait there, I’ll buy a bigger car”? “Can I pay to have your eyes checked”? “It’s my fault. There are moments in the day when both I and my car become invisible”? I’m aware that insurance companies tell you not to admit guilt at the scene of the accident, but I don’t feel that failing to look in your rearview mirror before you reverse is defensible.

  The other day at a red light, the opposite happened. I stopped and the car behind me continued. Luckily, he wasn’t traveling at a speed that could cause any damage, but it was a jolt. He jumped out of the car and screamed into my window, “I was on the phone!”

  Again, I’m unaware as to what my response should have been. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your call”?

  The driving-and-phoning thing has, of course, become so out of hand that it has been banned in many cities, and I’m hoping all other cities will follow that lead. How did splitting your focus while driving a heavy steel vehicle become so popular? For all you busy executives who think you can’t live without a car phone, the solution is simple: you need a car assistant, a little person who lives in the trunk and who, when necessary, sits beside you to dial and express your needs to your clients. Of course, that solution has its problems too, since even listening to someone else’s conversation is distracting. Whenever I’m on the phone and my husband is driving, he invariably gets lost.

  I saw a frightening report on one of the TV magazine shows recently about video screens inside cars. These are designed not for the restless children in the backseat but for the restless adult in the driver’s seat. Yes, there are now cars that are equipped with multiple screens that can be tuned to different channels. Evidently, there is currently no law on the books that prevents a person from watching television while driving, presumably bec
ause lawmakers didn’t have the foresight to predict the level of stupidity some human beings are capable of achieving. Eventually, watching television while driving will be outlawed, and while we’re rewriting driving laws, we should add a few extra, just in case:

  No sewing while driving.

  No bowling while driving.

  No barbecuing while driving.

  No washing your hair while driving.

  No cutting your toenails while driving.

  No welding while driving.

  No glassblowing while driving.

  No performing circumcisions while driving.

  I think this essay is finished. So I’m going to put my portable computer down now and concentrate on my driving.

  * * *

  Men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage. They’ve experienced pain and bought jewelry.

  * * *

  Everything New Is Old Again

  DOES ANYONE OUT THERE NEED A LASER DISC player? Make that three.

  First eight-track tapes, then Betamax, and now this. When I switched my VHS collection to laser disc, no one had a clue that DVDs would soon take over the world. There was also no indication that VHS tapes would stick around and laser discs would become technological lepers. Now I’m frozen in electronic indecision. My husband has of course taken the leap and now is trying to convince me to repurchase all of our favorite movies in the DVD format, but I know in my heart that DVDs will not be around to see my daughter marry.

  My distrust of buying anything electronic is now deeper than the frown line between my brows, and that, before Botox, was mighty deep. Do I really need a cell phone that takes pictures? I don’t think so. I also don’t need a camera that phones people up. I don’t need battery-powered sneakers, eyeglasses that get e-mail, or cars that can carry on a conversation. How can I persuade mankind to stop inventing needless gadgets that break down before they go out of style?

  I have a friend who still owns a rotary phone. She keeps it in her closet so that no one who comes to visit her can see how old she really is, but she had the last laugh during the last New York blackout. When I called my friends to see if they were all right, she was the only one who answered.