Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (19 page)

“It’s not for me,” I stammered. “I’m just here with my dad. I don’t want a flu shot. In fact, I wish I could give back the one I got seven years ago so that others might be helped.”

Ahhh. Their faces relaxed, and they put down their torches. I had been afraid that I was one step away from the old “witch test,” where they would dunk me in a vat of NyQuil to see if I would sink.

When you’re in a drugstore for that long, you gotta read something, so I selected Dr. Phil’s weight-loss cookbook. It wasn’t a great choice, because it’s so big and heavy that I had to pretty much kick it ahead on the floor with my foot like luggage while reading it. Dr. Phil’s diet consists of meals like
Lunch:
Grilled salmon, steamed asparagus and
leeks, and sweet potato souffle.
Dinner:
Roasted chicken, steamed vegetable medley, and fat-free polenta cakes.

Yeah. Let me just call my personal chef and have her whip that shit up. Is Dr. Phil
on the pipe?

Frankly, after a few hours in the flu line, I was convinced that what we’d have for supper that night would be stackable Lay’s, Altoids, and some stationery with kittens on it. Yum!

This past winter, there was such a flu-shot frenzy that I wondered why there wasn’t a Flu Channel. (“All Flu, All the Time!”) complete with Weather Channel studs wearing yellow slickers and reporting live from the scene of Joe and Joan’s four-poster mahogany bed. I can just see ‘em clinging to the bedposts as they battle gale-force sneezes and wet hacking coughs while assuring us that “There’s . . . not . . . much . . . time!”

It seems a cruel irony that flu season coincides with the busiest shopping season. At the mall, I desperately want to wear a surgical mask and gloves but I’m too chicken, fearful that shoppers will mistake me for Michael Jackson, who has been notoriously germ-phobic since he was just a small nut job growing up in Encino.

Post-flu, there are three types of antibacterial lotions in my purse these days and, like the in-laws, I’ve taken to spraying doorknobs with Lysol, sometimes while my guests are still touching them.

Even if I’d had a flu shot, there’s no guarantee it would have been the right one. At least that’s what everybody at
the CDC (the Cootie Detection Center) down in Atlanta says. That’s because every year there is a “new strain” of flu out there, mostly representing ominous sounding parts of the world like the Haiku Province, the Kung Pow Shrimp, and the Moo Goo Gai Pain. You never know which one’s going to strike.

So somebody at the drug company has an office pool or a lucky dartboard and finally picks one and bazillions of Moo Goo vaccines are shipped out. But just when you start to relax, you discover that, as it turns out, that guess was completely wrong. That this year’s flu strain was more of a Knockwurst—Type A, and epidemiologists around the world were left with egg foo yong on their faces.

I’d like to talk more about this, but I have to boil my mail. You just can’t be too careful, hons.

Get this. Knitting is hip. In fact, knitting is almost as hip as chipotle these days. Women are forming “stitch ‘n’ bitch” clubs where they sit around and knit. This sounds like a giant step backwards to me. What’s next? Getting together to make our own spray starch?

Knitting. You’ve got to be kidding. Before I hear from all the rabid pro-knitting nuts (oops, too late—more on that in a minute), let me say that I actually know a little something about knitting. I used to knit little purses for my friends in junior high, but then I
got a life.

And about chipotle. Don’t get me started. Nobody even knows how to pronounce this stuff, and now every restaurant you go to wants to put chipotle all over everything.

It reminds me of the old Monty Python skit where the
diner asks his waiter about the dessert specials, which turn out to be “rat pudding, rat pie, and strawberry tart.” The customer looks perplexed. “Strawberry tart?” “Well,” says the server, a tad apologetically, “there’s
some
rat in it.” Same with chipotle. I don’t even know what it is, but it’s on everything. Chipotle sauce, chipotle butter, chipotle beer. What next? “New, improved Hamburger Helper: Now with 50 percent more chipotle!”

Anyway, I was sitting around not knitting or eating chipotle the other night when I stumbled across a fascinating article about dinosaurs. See, it turns out that the real reason dinosaurs died out sixty-five million years ago was because a series of asteroid hits caused the skies to go dark and the Earth to grow cold.

This had a more serious effect than just making the dinosaurs hang out in the garages of their friends trying to get some cheap spray-tanning.

No, no. The real problem was that, as it turns out, boy dinosaurs are born more often when temperatures drop. After a while, there was little suspense in the dinosaur waiting room. It was, always, a boy.

And he was eating chipotle. No, no, just kidding.

For a while, I imagine this was a lot of fun. Dinosaurs all over the earth got to put their hooves up on the coffee table without being yelled at and could sit around with their buddies without being nagged to mow the rocks or whatever.

While I’m sure this was cause for great prehistoric merry-making,
after a while, the old men’s club just got kind of dull. All they ever did was hang out, eat way too many leaves, and just, generally, discuss Republican politics.

So, now you know how dinosaurs disappeared. Let’s just hope that knitting and chipotle won’t be far behind.

Okay, maybe just chipotle.

Knitters, I have discovered, don’t have much of a sense of humor. Every time I crack on the knitters, I get irate letters. Who knew?

Judging from the, uh, passion, with which these people write letters, I have to say that it would not surprise me in the least to find a large hand-knit horse’s head on the foot of my bed one day. Here was a typical letter from a woman I will simply call “Purl.”

“Who do you think you are to put down knitting? I knit all the time. You should learn to knit. I bet if you did learn to knit, your stuff would look as stupid as you do.”

Well, all righty, then.

And then there was the scorching mail from a nameless someone who wrote, “You should be fired for saying that knitting is for losers.” (Just for the record, I did
not
say that. I implied it. Now crocheting and tatting? That’s for losers. And don’t even get me started on macrame.
Kidding!)

Another writer took a more ominous approach: “You said knitters should ‘get a life.’ That wasn’t very nice. You are a very crappy person, and maybe you shouldn’t even have a life. Signed, Tony Soprano.” (Okay, maybe not, but that’s who it
sounded like. Is there some kind of knitting Mafia out there? And, if so, do they stitch tiny little cozies for their Uzis? “You have spoken disrespectfully of my hobby. And now you must pay. . . . Oh, criminy! How do I get this thing
off?”)

And this from another nutty knitter: “I suppose when you want to give a sweater to someone you love, you just go to the store and buy one!”

Well, uh, yes, Mrs.
Colonial House,
and your point would be?

The whole thing makes me wonder if I’ve tapped into some kind of Angry Knitters alternate universe. (“Don’t mess with me. I
knit!”)
I thought that knitting was supposed to relax you, rather like how watching an aquarium can lower your blood pressure. Although I’m not sure I believe that. I watch an aquarium and just get hungry for something yummy with slaw and hushpuppies.

Finally, I heard from a male knitter who said that he knits tiny little caps for premature babies, and he wanted to know what exactly I do for tiny little babies.

Well, admittedly, there’s not much market for sarcasm among newborns, but, if it makes you feel better, I shall be happy to read aloud portions of my work to the unborn in wombs across America, rather like those Mozart tapes you’re supposed to play to make your kid smart.

Just don’t blame me if he comes out a smart-ass. You
so
asked for it, dude.

“OnStar Hotline, may I help you?”

“Oh, thank God!
[panicky]
I need help with my Christmas list.”

“Okay, ma’am, please calm down. I can see from your location that you are in the mall parking lot and your blood pressure has just spiked to a rather dangerous level.”

“Well, that’s because some doofus just took my parking space,
[sobbing]
You don’t know what it’s like out here, OnStar.”

“Right, ma’am, we also see that it appears that your credit card has maxed out, so perhaps shopping isn’t a good idea today. Ma’am.”

“OnStar, I thought you were here to help.”

“Right, ma’am, sorry to editorialize. Have your airbags deployed?”

“It’s not a wreck, you ninny. It’s a shopping emergency.”

“Sorry again. Now, ma’am, it appears that, in fact, the pants you are wearing today do make your butt look too big.”

“OnStar!”

“Sorry again, ma’am. We’re really much better when it comes to auto emergencies, of which this doesn’t seem to be one.”

“Oh, right. Like the commercial where the woman has locked her keys in the car and her baby’s inside and she’s crying. That one always makes me cry when y’all unlock the doors.”

“Me, too, ma’am.”

“Really?”

“Of course not.”

“OnStar, you’re so good at helping everybody. Can you or can you not help me with my Christmas list?”

(Pause)

“OnStar, are you there?”

“Thinking, ma’am. Are you sure you don’t have any kind of auto emergency? We’re really quite well-trained to say things in comforting tones like, ‘Sit tight! Help is on the way.

“And I love the commercial where you ask if the person in the wreck would like you to stay on the line until help
arrives. That’s just so sweet. I mean you’re like a best friend in a box, on selected GM models, that is.”

“Oh, now, keep going on, ma’am, and you’re gonna have me bawling!”

“Right. What about help with my Christmas list—can you do it, OnStar?”

“Hmm. You know, fragrance is always nice. We at On-Star are partial to anything in the pine tree line or perhaps new car scent.”

“I dunno, OnStar. Look, let’s change subjects. Since you are so calm and comforting and knowledgeable, can you give me some advice so my turkey gravy isn’t lumpy this year?”

“Whoa. You’re asking the impossible now, ma’am. Everyone knows you make terrible gravy.”

“They do? Everyone? How do you know?”

(Irritated sigh)

“Oh, right. You know everything.”

“Now you’re starting to get it, ma’am. Although, just between you and me, it wouldn’t kill you to use cornstarch instead of flour. Oh, and, two words, Kitchen Bouquet. That shit is awesome!”

“OnStar! Did you just say
it-shay?”

“Forgive me, ma’am. I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again.”

“Sure, fine. One more question, though. If you know so
much, can you tell me why people still pay money to hear Ashlee Simpson sing when everyone knows she lip-synchs?”

(Silence)

“OnStar? Are you there?”

“Thinking, ma’am. Frankly, we at OnStar are surprised at all the nepotism in the entertainment world. Another caller wanted to know why Jamie Lynn Spears has her own TV show. It’s not as if there’s a giant talent pool coming out of Bigfoot, Louisiana, or wherever.”

“Exactly, OnStar! I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. Look, I know I’ve taken too much of your time already—”

“Well, ahem, that’s okay, ma’am. Martha Stewart will have to wait.”

“Martha Stewart?!
Is she on hold now?”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to name-drop like that. But, yes, while you’ve been fretting over your gravy and your Christmas list, a certain Connecticut homemaking mogul has been waiting, it says here, rather impatiently for some OnStar assistance.”

“Oh, OnStar! Go help her! Martha needs you! I mean I just love Martha and I think it was horrible that she went to the big house, the pokey, stir, Oz, up the river—”

“Yes, we get it, ma’am.”

“I’ll admit, though, that I used to want to be just like Martha, but then I read where she gets up before dawn, and I was like,
screw
that! I mean you gotta love a woman who
gets up every Christmas morning at three a.m. just to wring the neck of her pet duck and stuff it with a mix of lightly braised shallots and human hearts. I mean, don’t you?”

“Ma’am, I really have to go now. Ms. Stewart is starting to get upset. My GPS shows that she is going into a bit of a rage. Frankly, ma’am, I’m about to wet myself.”

“Oh, of course. I understand. Just one more thing. This isn’t going to turn into one of those OnStar commercials, is it, where y’all use the real-life emergency calls to sell your service?”

“Dream on, ma’am.”

I read that Britney Spears’s pregnancy test is for sale on eBay, perhaps inspired by the success of the sale of a wad of chewed gum she tossed during a London concert three years ago that went for fifty-three dollars.

One wonders why Britney can’t just use a trash can like the rest of us, but apparently she just tosses and spits and flicks like crazy. Her cast-off Kleenexes and cigarette butts were also on eBay, in case you think the gum and pregnancy test are tacky. There’s also a used bar of soap and a soiled hand towel deemed “priceless” by its owner, hmm, a Mr. J. Timberlake out of Memphis, Tennessee, perhaps?

People
magazine reported that a cameraman at one of Britney’s Canadian concerts snagged the wad of gum discarded backstage to show his friends and, after their interest
waned (approximately three seconds later), he decided to try his luck on eBay.

Although there’s no real way to prove that the gum has Britney’s actual dried saliva and teeth impressions on it, short of calling in Marg Helgenberger and the rest of those
CSI
freaks, the seller offers “sorta proof” such as ticket stubs that show he attended a Britney concert sometime somewhere and perhaps a picture of Britney chewing actual gum.