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For my family.
I blame them for everything.
EVERYTHING IS AWFUL, AND OTHER EMBARRASSMENTS
I was six years old when I last peed my pants.
I say this not to brag—although making it over twenty years without pissing my pants is actually quite an accomplishment, to be perfectly honest—but to bare my shame.
I was at my best friend Kenny’s house after school, drinking juice boxes and waging war with toy soldiers. You know, six-year-old stuff. As our battle wore on, my body slowly devolved into the cross-legged dance of the six-year-old in distress, writhing to console the mounting pressure of my bladder. As my soldiers fell in the heat of battle, I crept painfully closer to my limit.
I was dressed in my finest outfit for a school assembly earlier that day, some hideous combination of red, black, and white my mother thought was stylish in 1996. In retrospect, that outfit probably deserved to be pissed on. You can’t put a budding homosexual in an ill-conceived pattern and expect him not to urinate all over it. Regardless, there I was, standing in front of the toilet (I’d managed, at least, to make it to the bathroom), furiously struggling with the buttons of my fancy six-year-old pants. And yes, my mother chose not only a hideous pattern, but dress pants with buttons instead of a zipper, yet another choice that begged for this very outcome. I’d held my composure for as long as I could.
My hands helplessly fumbling at the buttons, I finally succumbed to sweet relief, soaking the plush rug beneath my feet, along with my socks, underwear, and those wretched pants, still buckled around my waist. Some days, when I'm standing in front of a toilet, I can still feel that rug beneath my feet, a moist phantom of my earliest humiliation.
I spent the next twenty minutes silently brooding in that bathroom. They were black pants, after all. Maybe I could get away with acting like this hadn’t happened. All I needed to do was spend the next two to three hours in damp agony, and as long as nobody looked too closely or inhaled too deeply, I could escape undetected.
But I spent too long plotting this out, and Kenny’s mom knocked on the door.
“Is everything all right in there?” (A question that someone only asks when everything is not all right in there.)
I confessed to the accident, and opened the door in surrender. I thought for a moment maybe she’d stick my nose in it, the way my own mother used to stick our dog’s nose in his pee when he pissed where he wasn’t supposed to. But she took the carpet from beneath me and handed me a pair of Kenny’s old shorts to wear for the rest of our playdate, my very own scarlet letter so that all could bear witness to my shame.
That evening, I left Kenny’s house in those shame shorts, carrying my own clothes in a plastic bag, with my head held high, just as Hester walked with her letter before me.
• • •
I couldn’t help but think that I somehow deserved what happened.
Earlier that day, my schoolmates and I were eating lunch in our classroom. The gymnasium we’d normally eat in was closed for the assembly, so we were eating at our desks instead, which felt intoxicating, like we were doing something forbidden. Everybody was already hopped up on assembly energy, but now we were especially animated, fidgeting in our seats, screaming across the room, tossing bits of food when the teacher turned her back.
Austin was the boy who sat behind me, a huge lug of a kid, nearly twice as tall as the rest of us and almost twice as thick. If this were a fairy tale, Austin would be the ogre child we’d all run from when he emerged from his swamp. And I’d feel bad about that comparison, but Austin was kind of an asshole, one of those boys who was friendly only until someone better came along, so I treated him with similar respect.
We were drinking from our cartons of milk, those tiny paper boxes that are nearly impossible to open, made of that kind of thin cardboard that gets immediately soggy after the first few sips. Austin was halfway through a long sip when I turned around and made a funny face—my repertoire of humor in first grade was limited to gurgling noises, knock-knock jokes, and funny faces—and he choked back a mouthful of spittle and milk with a furious scowl.
“Don’t!” he screamed with genuine anger. “These are my nice pants! I can’t ruin them!”
This made me laugh even harder.
Each time he’d pick up his carton, I’d turn around with my fingers halfway up my nose, my cheeks puffed out, and my eyes crossed, and Austin would cry back, “Stop! If I get milk on my pants, my mom’s gonna kill me!”
It went on like this for ten minutes, back and forth, attracting a small audience around us eagerly waiting to see if Austin would ever finish his milk. Until finally, I waited for him to take the largest possible gulp. I turned around at just the right moment with just the right combination of fingers stuffed into the right combination of face holes. Austin lurched forward for a moment to try to stop himself from reacting. And then, all at once, a violent stream of milk exploded from his nose, all down his sweater, and pooled momentarily in his pants before seeping into the fabric.
The audience around us erupted in screams of laughter, and Austin’s own outburst turned from a milky chortle to anguish as he stomped away from us, wailing in protest.
There are a few lessons to draw here, the first of which, of course, is that children are terrible human beings, and I was certainly no exception. (Though, in my defense, Austin grew up to be an even bigger dick, and once said, “I’m fat, but at least I’m not fat and gay like Matt Bellassai,” so I don’t regret ruining his dumb pants, and if I could, I’d go back, do it all again, and then smash his stupid face into that puddle of snotty lap milk before it seeped onto his tiny ogre dick.)
Most significantly, though, this was the first time I realized that comedy could be weaponized. I might not have been the fastest or strongest, but I could spin a joke or pull a face, and bring an oafish menace like Austin to his knees. And yes, perhaps I’d have to make myself look like a fool for the sake of a laugh, but at least it was my laugh in the end, even if I ended the day in a pair of someone else’s shorts, carrying my own soiled pants and underwear in a plastic Baggie.
• • •
I’m not one of those cool New Yorkers who lunched with Nora Ephron, but I like to pretend that I am. I imagine we would have sat for hours at a café drinking coffees, ordering extra croissants when we’d finished the two we’d each already eaten, and smearing them with extra high-fat butter. We’d have been wearing matching turtlenecks and scarves, discussing which wrinkle-reducing eye creams we’d discovered most recently, or which new dessert shop we would try next, or perhaps, after the sixth croissant, whether Angelina Jolie would ever find love again.
I moved to the Upper West Side in part because I idolized Nora’s rendition of it. My studio was only a closet compared to the apartments in the Apthorp, the famous complex down the street where Nora lived for some time. But still, I felt peppy and witty and sophisticated whenever I walked those streets, like a character in one of her movies, waiting for a young, hot Tom Hanks to reach for the same muffin as me at the bakery before sweeping me off my feet and paying off all of my student loan bills. It made my measly New York existence—my piles of takeout containers stacked in the corner, my bathroom without a bathroom door, the stench of bur
ning meats that wrestled its way through the walls from the apartment next door—feel all the more like I was living the life of a scintillating two-time divorcée, a true woman of the city.
Most important, though, living like Nora made it all the easier to find the humor in all those terrible New York moments: discovering mold on the bottom of a breakfast sandwich I’d already half-eaten; falling down an entire subway staircase; dropping an entire container of hot food I’d carefully selected the second I stepped out of the Whole Foods in Union Square.
“Everything is copy,” Nora recalls her mother repeating, which she interpreted as a sort of battle cry. “When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you,” she wrote of her mother’s quote, “but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh. So you become the hero rather than the victim of the joke.”
What follows in this book is a collection of all of my banana-slipping moments, retold here so that I may, perhaps, be the hero and not the victim of my plentiful embarrassments. Consider it a retelling of life’s little indignities, all the times I’ve stood in front of a toilet, desperately grasping at the buttons of my big-boy pants, when everything goes utterly awry, however cosmically deserved.
This book is my Baggie full of pee pants. And I hold it high as the urine-stained hero.
ON BEING AN ADULT, OR I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING
I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Like, at all. This morning alone, I hit the snooze button no less than thirteen times before getting out of bed, and let’s be real, I only really gave in because I had to pee and I figured pissing my sheets would be more trouble than it was worth on a Tuesday afternoon. And yes, before you ask, I have in fact considered peeing my bed rather than standing up and walking fifteen feet to use the toilet, and the day I decide doing laundry is less work than walking to the bathroom is the day we’re all in a hell of a lot of trouble. And sure, I managed to put on sweatpants and walk to the deli across the street to order a breakfast sandwich, a muffin, and a chocolate milk, but only before I dragged it all back to my apartment, climbed back into bed, and stuffed it all in my face seconds before falling back asleep for another three and a half hours.
This, my friends, is what I consider a productive day.
Here is my truth. I’m Matt. I’m twenty-six. And I’m terrible at being a functioning, self-sufficient, adult member of society. If they gave out awards for being bad at growing up—like Most Likely to Eat a Frozen Dinner That’s Still Frozen Because He Couldn’t Wait the Full Four Minutes for the Microwave to Finish—I probably would’ve won a whole bunch of them by now, but then again, they’d probably make me show up somewhere to accept them, and then I’d have to shower and put on deodorant, and probably wear a bow tie and cuff links, and the thought of doing just one of those things is exhausting enough. Also, I don’t even know how to tie a bow tie and I don’t really know what cuff links are supposed to do, so my talent for being horrible at adulthood will probably go unrecognized forever. Unless they send me the award in the mail, in which case, I’ll totally accept it, but only if I don’t have to sign for the package, because I don’t like opening the door for the UPS man, since he’s usually unreasonably attractive and my eyes are usually still boogered shut from sleeping until four o’clock in the afternoon. But I will absolutely pick it up from the doorway once he leaves.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself, which is a thing that tends to happen when you have no idea what you’re doing and also you’re trying to write a whole fucking book. Apparently writing a book takes a very long time and is not something you can just wait and do the night before it’s due, no matter how often it worked in college, ’cause a book is a whole lot longer than those papers you wrote in college, and also nobody is spending money to buy your college paper from the bargain bin at Target, which is where I assume everybody will buy this book.
Whew. Where was I? Oh yes.
The truth is, I’m very bad at growing up, and I always have been. And, like all problems in life, it’s most likely my family’s fault, or at least it’s easiest to just blame it all on them.
Like many babies, I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, and I don’t technically blame my mother outright, but I do have questions. Sure, it’s a perfectly normal thing that happens during labor—it happens in something like one in three childbirths—and most people don’t even think twice about it. But in my case, I can’t help but wonder whether, on some subconscious level, my mother’s body knew exactly what it was doing and simply refused to let go, intent on keeping me in the womb until I became an elderly man and died. Or worse, it was trying to kill me before I had a chance to grow up and write a book that painted her as some kind of overprotective gestapo. Whatever the reason, I survived the attack, blue-faced and bloated, able to breathe on my own. And that was perhaps the first and only time I did anything by myself.
I went on to spend an inordinate amount of my childhood bashfully attached to my mother’s pelvis, mostly out of social anxiety, but also because I was raised, from an early age, to fear anything that posed even the mildest of threats. In my mother’s worldview, no danger was too small or insignificant to ignore, and my older brother and I were taught to mistrust basically anything that spoke, breathed, or moved.
Riding bikes outside the driveway was a surefire way to end up as roadkill, and roadkill was a surefire way to catch salmonella or rabies or whatever diseases raccoons carried, which we were to safely assume was every disease. Pools of water deeper than puddles were traps sent from heaven to claim little angels. (“A child can drown in an inch of water,” my mother would often yell. “An inch.”) And don’t even get her started on public parks. Sure, go ahead. Go to the park. Have fun spending the rest of your life cooking meth with the other kids in some guy named Burl’s basement. I bet he won’t make you a birthday lasagna. In retrospect, I think it’s quite possible my mother kept me purposely fat and lazy to make me less attractive to abductors. Go ahead, try stealing my flabby baby boy. Good luck getting him to do shit for you, though. Feeding him alone will cost you a fortune!
And so I grew up thinking every activity was brimming with peril. To Debbie, letting a child onto a trampoline was no less dangerous than arming him with a loaded semiautomatic pistol. A water gun that fired anything more than a sprinkle was the quickest way to lose both eyes. And snow days were not days of glory and amusement, because glory and amusement equaled extremities lost to frostbite. “If the snow is too dangerous for you to go to school in,” she told us, “then it’s definitely too dangerous to play in.”
Now, my mother was by no means a doomsayer who forced us to live in some bunker and bide our time until the nuclear apocalypse burnt us all to hell (though we did stock up on canned goods before Y2K, but that was just common sense). In fact, my mother freely encouraged us to go outside—as long as we stayed within six to ten inches of the front door at all times—and we were given all the trappings of midwestern suburban kid life, like scooters, big wheels, pogo sticks, and skateboards—and we could do anything we wanted with them, as long as anything didn’t include riding, jumping, running, brisk walking, or moving.
I know, of course, that all of this worrying came only from a place of love. My mother likes to remind me that I was a miracle baby, because her uterus had been almost entirely removed before she became pregnant with me, and doctors told her the likelihood of conceiving another child was basically next to impossible. Which is all to say that I was not a miracle, but what they call a big, fat accident. But still. I was her precious baby boy, handed to her by Jesus himself. I grew up, in other words, being what psychiatrists might later diagnose as “hopelessly coddled into emotional and physical dependency,” which is just fancy talk for “loved too much and fucked up because of it.”
By the time I was old enough to go to preschool, I’d already become so terrified of the grown-up world that I literally refused to get out of the car on the first day of school. When my mother cam
e around the car to open the door for me, I’d scurried up to the driver’s seat, locked all the doors, and sat steadfast in nonviolent protest. If I’d had the stamina, I would still be there today. They managed eventually to lure me out with the promise of sugar and gifts, but once we were inside, I refused to be put down, and dug into the thick of my mother’s arm while three grown adults attempted to peel me from her. This happened every morning for the first week of preschool, until they finally broke me.
Of course, I can’t entirely blame my mother for teaching me to fear the world, in part because she will read this book, and if she’s made it this far, I’m sure she’s already pissed, and I have no doubt she’s already plotting her own revenge memoir just to publish every embarrassing detail of my entire existence in excruciating specificity. But also, I have to be fair. Because Michael Jackson is also to blame.
Now I know what you’re thinking, and no, I never had to go to court and point at a doll and I’m almost positive I’ve never been to Neverland Ranch. But Michael Jackson ruined my childhood nonetheless. Let me explain.
When I was somewhere around two or three years old, I was minding my own business, probably playing with my Mr. Potato Head in peace, when Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” came on the television. This was 1993, it had been a full decade since “Thriller” was first released, but they only showed three things on TV in the nineties—The Oprah Winfrey Show, TV shows about black teenagers going to live with their aunties and uncles in Bel Air, and thirteen-minute-long music videos—and “Thriller” fell into at least two of those categories. For whatever reason, my mother thought it would be a good idea for me, her three-year-old infant baby child, to see this video with my own two innocent baby eyes. She beckoned me over from Mr. Potato Head and innocently said, “Look, Matthew. Watch the man turn into a big doggie.” She figured, I guess, that I was three, and my interests included dogs, bright jackets, and effeminate men, so maybe I’d enjoy watching Michael Jackson turn into what she affectionately believed to be a large, kind puppy.
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