Sure, gossip can be malicious and has been known to destroy lives and careers but, hey, nothing’s perfect. You don’t see me boycotting McDonald’s just because of the McRib, do you?
The Words Can Heal movement has been embraced by a bunch of politicians. I feel better already. And I’m certain Gary Condit—y’all remember the adulterous poofy-haired louse—must be breathing a huge sigh of relief.
Of course, there’s really no reason for us gossipmongers to fret. I remember a few weeks back when Oprah (who, I heard, may really be a man) had a show in which she explored the evils of gossip and pledged her own self to just stop it.
Fast forward to the next day’s episode when she’s asking Nicole Kidman if it’s true that Tom Cruise has webbed feet.
So what happened to the Cruise-Kidmans anyway? They say they never see each other because both have such busy film careers. One wonders when they managed to see their two freshly adopted children, but then one doesn’t want to sound judgmental. Oh, sure one does.
Nicole had bragged, right before the breakup, that they were “well past the seven-year itch” and that their marriage was super-solid in its eleventh year. Of course, it was solidified in the way most of ours are: by trotting around our naughty bits for all the world to see in a perfectly ghastly Stanley Kubrick movie.
The Cruise-Kidmans sued the tabloids for saying they needed a sex therapist to coach them on those steamy scenes in Eyes Wide Shut and won the suit. But remember what my aunt Sudavee always said: “A bit dog hollers.”
I don’t know what it means either, but it somehow feels appropriate here.
The good gossip news is that this puts Tommy boy back in the game. Men love to hate Tom Cruise, rolling their eyes and calling him a girly man. Of course, this always comes from men who haven’t budged from their BarcaLoungers since the Atlanta Olympics.
When they’re not making headlines getting divorced and bed-hopping (see Zeta-Jones, Catherine), celebrities are always getting on silly bandwagons for this or that, and I suspect this stop-gossip foolery will have to run its course.
We have celebs to thank for a distressing recent trend called the Lesser Boyfriend. This got started with Julia Roberts and Benjamin Bratt. She is the radiant Oscar winner who is paid (notice I didn’t say “earns”) $25 million per movie. He is the also-ran who latched on to Julia and immediately quit his day job on Law and Order, where he displayed the emotional range of, say, Joe Friday.
Other celebs followed suit. J-Lo dumped Puffy Combs for an unknown backup dancer, for instance, before finally coming to her senses and discovering just what my mama always told me: it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.
The lesser boyfriend? Thanks a lot, sister-chicks.
This is a trend we don’t need but will no doubt trickle down and splatter all over us like so much seagull poop. I envision a nation of newly empowered men who seize this chance to become the professional wind beneath our wings.
Just sit there and look soulful while she picks up the check. Nice work if you can get it, right?
Wrong. The lesser boyfriend is a terrible idea for the Julias and the Jennifers but it’s a horrendously bad idea for the Amber Dawns and Misti Raes out here in the real world, where soul boy’s gonna throw in your face that he gave up his dream of becoming a professional wrassler and comic-strip artist just for you.
Of course, being a gossipmonger of the lowest order, I fed like plankton on the Big Breakup, when Julia woke up and realized she wanted somebody who could do more than anticipate the exact moment when her eight-bucks-a-bottle water was getting dangerously low in the glass.
Naturally, Bratt got married, like, six months after Julia dumped him and I’m looking at his bride and thinking: Hell-o. You have long reddish brown hair and sausage lips. Get a clue, rebound girl.
The point is, we can’t kick gossip to the curb. Why? Because it’s fun.
Taking a pledge to never gossip, a measure supported by this new movement, is just plain scary. The thought that I could never again speculate to all my friends and neighbors about why my mailman shaves his legs is as depressing as back fat.
That said, I do believe it’s important to set the record straight if you find out you’ve spread misinformation. The mailman’s a triathlete, it turns out, and shaves his legs to cut down on the wind resistance when he’s cycling.
Yeah. I believe that.
2
SUVS EAT THE
Ozone?
Hey, We All Gotta Eat Something and I Got Twenty-Seven Cup Holders
Oh, pity us poor SUV owners. No, really. Any more bad publicity and we’re going to have to start meeting in church basements and drinking too much coffee before we nervously step forward to confess the awful truth: “Hi, my name is Nimrod and I drive a Ford Excursion.”
“Hi, Nimrod.”
Bad enough we have to pay up to $75 for a tank of gas, but now we learn that there is a national movement among la-di-da “ethics experts” to expose us as the rotten, selfish, dangerous, polluting road hogs we truly are.
These smartypants ethicists, who apparently don’t find the human genome debate nearly sexy enough to ponder, believe that not nearly enough of us are “really thinking through” the decision to buy an SUV.
As one explained it, “If you buy an SUV, you’re buying your safety at the expense of someone else’s.”
Well, yes. And your point would be?
Sorry. I know that’s not the PC reaction, but let’s face it. If you’re driving a Hyundai, which basically runs on air and tofu, and you get in an accident with an SUV, are you going to say, “Well, at least I have the courage of my convictions”? Hell, no. You’re going to say: “Soon’s I get outta this hospital bed and find my legs, I’m gonna get me a Suburban. Loaded.”
Why should I apologize for wanting to buy the safest family vehicle I honestly cannot afford? It’s the American way.
A recent newspaper story reported that some particularly guilt-ridden potential SUV buyers are actually seeking the advice of professional “ethics consultants.”
Have mercy.
These buyers are wailing and wringing their hands as they weigh the obvious benefit of owning an SUV (they’re big) versus something smaller and weenielike (they can face themselves in the mirror—small clip-on lightless mirror that it is).
I’m guessing these flakes don’t even kick the tires for fear it might hurt their feelings.
The only real advantage in owning a normal-size car is fewer trips to the gas station. Back in the day, I didn’t mind pumping my own gas but that was when instructions were simpler: Remove nozzle, lift handle, pump gas, heed the siren song of the attractively displayed chocolate cream horns at the cash register, pay the man.
Today’s pumps are just so irritating, carrying on little conversations on a screen: “Hi. Have a nice day. Do you wish to pay with a credit or debit card? Cash? What are you, some kind of freak? If you used the pay-at-pump card, you could just drive away without feeling forced to buy that Slurpee the size of a thirty-gallon trash can, which, between you and me, it’s painfully obvious you don’t need.”
I despise this giant leap forward in womankind that has us pumping our own gas. Some gas pumps are so slow it’s as if they’ve metamorphosed into eighty-year-old men with uncooperative prostates. While you fume about this, the crawl on the pump is blinking: “Pay inside now! And don’t forget the jerky!”
Most of the attacks on the SUV come from environmentalists because, well, the emission control standards are, uh, missing.
This is sad indeed, but what can I tell you? So are my husband’s.
Interestingly, most of the ethicists interviewed for the news story owned SUVs. One said he was trying not to get defensive about owning a Lincoln Navigator but added that he does have four kids. And they’re really fat. (Okay, that’s just a guess.)
One of the reasons I bought Bubbette was that SUVs are supposed to be so damned sturdy and dependable. To tell the t
ruth, car maintenance isn’t a priority for me. Sure, I could spend the money for an oil change or even get one of those, whatchamacallit, spare tires, but a new DVD player and blond highlights are just so much more fun!
I despise taking cars in for service because, sooner or later, the mechanic is going to motion me over to look under the hood.
In a way, it’s endearing. He’s trying very hard not to assume that I don’t know coolant from Coolio, which of course I don’t.
“Now, Miz Rivenbark,” he’ll say with tremendous earnestness, “as you can plainly see, your DPFE sensor is in dire need of replacement.” He’ll then point in the direction of something about the size of an Oysterette.
“It looks awfully small,” I’ll whine. “How much will it cost?”
The answer to this is always $165, including labor.
Doesn’t matter what you have done; it’s going to be $165. Just watch.
“Hey,” I’ll say, “can’t we just skip it? I mean, I really need a root perm this week, hon.”
I get the Lecture.
He starts in on emissions standards and I just watch his mouth moving, thinking that I might as well kiss the root perm and the tangerine ultrasuede jacket good-bye this week.
“Can’t I wait a couple of months?” I ask, twirling my flat hair semiflirtatiously.
“Miz Rivenbark, you are risking permanent damage to the automobile,” he says. “Not to mention much more costly repairs down the road.”
“Oh, go ahead, then.” I pout.
Of course, there’s more. After an hour or so in the toxic waiting room with only an elderly Wildlife magazine to read and the smell of burned coffee and tires to keep me company, the mechanic returns to inform me that my automatic transmission fluid is black.
“It’s my best color,” I say cheerily, setting womankind back a few more decades.
“It needs immediate replacement,” he says, practically pleading. “In fact, all your fluids are in terrible shape. Your power steering fluid and your radiator coolant are practically gummy!”
He went on, blah, blah, blah, but I was thinking about my high school years when my dad explained that you should change the oil every fifty-thousand miles or something like that. He seemed to think that was a Big Deal, so I’ve always been sure to at least do that part right.
I’d rather buy a new car than maintain the old one. I bought Bubbette after my midsized, fuel-efficient non-ozone-eatin’ car left me stranded by the roadside. As I sat in my smoking hunk of crap on the shoulder of the interstate, hazard lights flashing (and who knew you could use them for something besides parking in the fire lane at the Food Lion to run in for milk?), I am mortified to report that not one soul stopped to help.
This is the South, for heaven’s sake. Where was the concern, the hospitality, the sweet family that would, naturally, stop to offer assistance? I waved to an elderly lady who looked unlikely to hit me in the head and drag me off into the kudzu but she just gave me the finger.
If I had not had my cell phone, I would be there right now, wasting away with only a pack of Chiclets and half a hairy fruit roll-up to sustain me.
Oddly enough, just five days earlier I had joined a nationally respected automobile club, whose initials are AAA, and my shiny new temporary membership card was in my wallet.
When I called the toll-free help line, the woman on the other end of the phone sounded vaguely irritated. Why was she annoyed? I was late for my first big-city book signing, stressed out, and, because it was North Carolina in August, in grave danger of starting to smell like a goat.
I told her that smoke was pouring from beneath the hood of my car. I thought she might advise me to “stop, drop, and roll” or something but she seemed unimpressed. Apparently, she gets these calls all day from Tapeworm, Alabama, to Moose Butt, Alaska, and she wasn’t full of warm fuzzies.
I gave her my location, pinning it down by naming the nearest town and saying that I was approximately two miles west of it on Interstate 40. This, however, wasn’t good enough.
“Ma’am,” she snarled, “in the future, it is always a good idea to make a mental note of each exit you pass so that you will know exactly where you are at all times.”
“What am I? Rain Man?” I snapped. “No one makes a mental note of what exit they’re driving past. Six minutes till Wapner…”
After another testy ten minutes or so, during which time she asked everything except my shoe size and favorite brand of salsa, she asked me to describe, again, the nature of my car’s problem.
“Well,” I began, trying to be patient, “there’s a gauge blinking red, smoke billowing out from under the hood, and an awful burning smell as if wires have all fused together into one charred mess.”
There was a pause, and then she asked—and I swear I am not making this up—“Ma’am, is the vehicle drive-able?”
“Sure it is,” I said. “I just wanted to pull off the road and chat with you because I’m just so frikkin’ tired of arriving everywhere on time.”
The tow truck arrived ninety minutes later, having been given some very odd directions. Would driving an SUV have made it all better? Would the wait have been more pleasant? Perhaps not, but what can I tell you? I got twenty-seven cup holders. Life’s a series of choices, hons.
3
FEELING
Squirrely
Why Clone Cats When There’s Perfectly Good Russell Crowe Lying Around?
My cats have gotten a whiff of the weirdest new business around and they want in. They haven’t said anything, mind you. They are still just cats, but they’ve been agitated ever since I caught them watching a CNN report about a new cat-cloning laboratory.
I can tell they’re wondering which one we’ll clone. The eleven-year-old may think he’s got the edge because we adopted him as a kitten but he scratches tic-tac-toe games into our ankles every time we step over him and we’re, frankly, over it.
The ten-year-old is sweeter but she has only one eye and throws up on the carpet a lot. (Then again, so does my aunt Ollie Rae, come to think of it.)
Cloning cats is expected to be big business for the folks at Genetic Savings and Clone (wonder if they give out free electric blankets or flatware when you open an account) who say that preserving your kitty’s precious DNA is like “rescuing art from a burning building.”
I’ve never actually owned any artwork that farts while it sleeps, but maybe that’s just me.
They’re working on developing the technology to clone dogs, but it’s proving much more difficult because dogs have a much more complex reproductive cycle than cats.
Complex? Who are they kidding? I personally know dogs that have birthed a dozen puppies in less time than the average TNT movie commercial break.
Whatever. It’s hard to understand why anybody would clone their cats when there are so many without homes already. Sure, they don’t have Fluffy’s sweet demeanor or Waldo’s sense of wonder, but they deserve a home, not a clone.
I get the whole notion of cloning cows and sheep for medicine produced in their milk. And, hey, I wouldn’t object to cloning the occasional human as long as his name was Russell Crowe, but I bet I know one person who will fight the cat-cloning business. Attorney General John Ashcroft has admitted, in front of witnesses, that he thinks cats, particularly calicos, are “evil.”
Of course, this is the same guy who has doilies and curtains placed over nude statues so he won’t have to see what Archie Bunker would’ve called “offensible nudidity.” He is wazy—way crazy, that is.
Having owned my share of calicos, I don’t get it. They’re no more evil than, say, tabby cats or even fluffy Persians (currently Iranians). All of them, as we know, can hack into your computer files, shred crucial Justice Department documents, and even cast spells on you that cause you to cough up some wicked hairballs during staff briefings. But other than that…
Of course, we’re all a little loony, but shouldn’t it upset the average tax-paying American to realize that the Big J
ustice Guy is squealing like a schoolgirl every time he sees a tricolored cat? Sure, I know they can read your mind, but even so.
And shouldn’t we be concerned that Ashcroft targets the calico, which is almost always female? Isn’t this further proof of what we have long suspected, that this guy really detests Estrogen Americans?
Even those with whiskers and short, pointy ears. You know, like Greta Van Susteren used to have until she had plastic surgery to become a cable news hottie.
Heaven help poor Ashcroft if he is forced to visit a museum in all his world travels. Is an advance team summoned to sprint ahead and cover any offending private parts with dish towels?
Because I firmly believe that one should confront one’s fears in order to achieve true personal growth, I suggest that Ashcroft sign up for the next celebrity Fear Factor. None of those sissy tricks like dangling outside a helicopter by your teeth or baby-stepping across the ledge of a skyscraper or scarfing up a plate of pig rectum. No, no. Ashcroft should be locked in a cage with a dozen or so calicos, forced to watch their evildoing: licking themselves, purring, sleeping.
Hey, don’t thank me for the idea. Restoring the big guy’s sanity is thanks enough.
In other news from the animal kingdom, Northwestern biologists might want to look into cloning squirrels.
Turns out there is a serious decline in the gray squirrel population in the Pacific Northwest.
I detest these rats-with-tails because they systematically hide and eat my entire pecan crop every year. During the winter months, as I step out to get my morning newspaper, they’re out there waddling around my yard, patting their distended stomachs, grinning and winking at me.
The problem, according to biologists, is that boy squirrels are “eager to mate” two-thirds of the year. The other third, presumably, is reserved for football and male bonding over bowlfuls of stolen nuts. Meanwhile, girl squirrels living in rainy Washington State and perhaps suffering from SSAD (squirrel seasonal affective disorder) feel frisky for only six hours a year.
We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier Page 14