Now, there is a chance she’ll ask, “Then what did you say?” Don’t panic. Just think of something that sounds like what you said, and say that instead. For instance, “You misheard me, stranger, what I said was…um…er…my bear keeps going up my crack.” If she says incredulously, “Your bear keeps going up your crack?!” well then all bets are off. It’s now time for a different strategy: attack, attack, attack. Look at her and say, “Listen, I’ve had just about enough with the questions. Who are you, anyway? I don’t know you. I don’t owe you any explanation. You are way too curious for me, old lady. Why don’t you go stand next to someone else and eavesdrop on them, you weirdo?!” And that’s usually when Kathy comes back and says, “Oh, great, I see you’ve met our host’s grandmother.”
Situation:
Hug, Kiss, or Shake Hands
Believe it or not, it is as potentially awkward to greet someone whose name you remember as it is to greet Kathy. That’s because you never know what physical action to take upon greeting each other. Do you shake their hand? Do you hug them? Do you kiss them? Or, trickiest yet, do you do the complicated hug-kiss combo? What makes this combo tricky is knowing the order of the beats involved. If you think you’re going to kiss on the cheek first, then hug, and your friend feels the opposite, you could end up kissing your friend on the ear or, if your friend is very tall, on the chest. Either way is potentially embarrassing. As is sticking out your hand while your friend tries to kiss you, inevitably ending up with a gooey, kiss-drenched hand.
So, you’re at the party and the host is approaching you quickly. It’s hard to believe you’ve been at the party long enough to chitchat, have a few drinks, and eat the first piece of his grandmother’s birthday cake (looking back, you probably should have waited for them to light it, but you just assumed that they, like you, were forbidden by court order from playing with matches) without saying hi to the host. Now, there he is marching toward you and you have no idea how to greet him. What do you do? What do you do?
Solution
The answer to this dilemma is as simple as it is uncomplicated. Let your friend make the first move and respond accordingly (or accordionly if you know how to play one). What’s important for this strategy to work is to adopt the right stance so that you’re ready for whatever physical greeting is about to be laid on you. I recommend legs shoulder-width apart, shoulders leg-width apart, and arms outstretched but with a little bend in the elbow so that you don’t look like you’re being crucified. If your friend, undertaking the same strategy, approaches you with the same stance, that’s okay too. I’ve had long conversations with people where both of us stood a foot away from each other, our arms outstretched, talking for hours.
Situation:
Accidentally Flipping Off
John Travolta
Granted, the odds of this situation happening are fairly low, maybe one in eight at best, but in my book it’s best to be prepared. And since it’s my book that you’re reading, I’m guessing you feel the same.
So, you’re at the party standing in the neutral position ready to greet your host, when he surprises you by grabbing your arm, pressing it into your back, and pushing you toward the door, all the while screaming in a high-pitched voice, “What are you doing here, you crazy bed-burning lady person? (For some reason, whenever your host gets mad he talks like Jerry Lewis.)
The next thing you know, you’re being thrown out the door and given what your father calls “the bum’s rush.” You feel hurt, insulted, and angry, especially since your father was at the party and did nothing to stop your humiliation except to say, “Look, she’s being given the bum’s rush.”
So you get in your car and decide to drive until your anger and your buzz from the three dirty martinis you had wears off. You’re driving at the legally acceptable twenty miles above the speed limit, when some jerk cuts in front of you going a mere fifteen miles above the limit. Infuriated, you drive past, and give him the finger, flip him the bird, stick him the digit. (I made that last one up; it just seemed that for rhythm there should be three.) Then you open your eyes (I have no idea why you were driving with your eyes closed) and notice that the driver of the car is none other than John Travolta (which I guess is not much of a surprise given the title of this situation). What do you do? What do you do?
Solution
This is an easy one. All you have to do is move your arm to your side, raise it up at a forty-five-degree angle, and pump. During the second pump, casually switch your protruding finger from the middle one to the index finger. Suddenly you’re no longer flipping John Travolta off, you’re doing a touching homage to one of his most beloved movies, Saturday Night Fever.
This, according to the unwritten laws of showbiz, officially makes you John Travolta’s friend. So you’re perfectly within your rights to follow him wherever he’s going, get out of your car when he does, and engage him in conversation. Tell him your dreams, your fears, and all the embarrassing things that happened to you at the party. And don’t be surprised if after you’ve told him all this, he looks at you blankly for a beat, then says, “That sounds a lot like Gloria Estefan.”
God, What a Day!
I have learned in this business not to believe anything that I read or hear about anyone until I sit down with that person and hear it for myself. Fortunately, that’s one of the perks of this business—you get to meet a lot of interesting people and you get to have a lot of interesting conversations. I’ve been lucky enough to meet the President and Oprah and Madonna and a lot of other fascinating people, so it was only a matter of time before I would meet God. And I have. What a day that was!
Imagine my surprise when one afternoon I received an invitation with the return address God in Heaven. Here’s what it said inside:
Ellen, please join me for fondue and Chablis.
When: Saturday May 3rd, 2:00 P.M.
Where: My house
(No need to RSVP. I’ll know if you’re coming.)
Now, normally I don’t like Chablis, but this one was nice. It was dry with a peppery oak aftertaste. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was nervous with anticipation for weeks. Finally, the big day arrived and I made my way over to God’s house. As I was pulling up, Jennifer Love Hewitt was just leaving. (She is so sweet.) I was led into God’s living room and told to wait. (It was so bright in there! Let me tell you, every lamp was on—it was crazy, crazy bright!) As I was sitting there, I started to think, I wonder what he dresses like? Does he wear that robe all the time? Like the Pope. I mean, he can’t always wear that Pope outfit, can he? Once in a while, don’t you think he throws on a pair of shorts and a tank and just, you know, chills out? And then I started thinking, I wonder if I’m dressed appropriately to meet God? I don’t know how you are supposed to dress. Then I realized the obvious. God has seen me naked! So I just took my clothes off.
Anyway, I was looking around the living room and in front of me there was a coffee table with two magazines on it, Teen People and Guns & Ammo, and a poster of a kitten on the wall that says “Hang in There, Baby.” And there were pictures of Jesus everywhere! You can’t believe how many pictures of Jesus there were. A picture of Jesus on a pony with a cowboy hat. A picture of Jesus on the beach wearing a shirt that says, “My parents created the universe and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”
I started to get nervous. I’m going to meet God in just a minute, I thought. I don’t even know how to greet God. Do I shake hands or do I curtsy or bow? I mean, do we hug? I feel close enough to God to hug God, but I know how it is—a lot of people want to hug me (TV does that), but I don’t want to hug a lot of people. You’ve got to be respectful.
So, a couple of minutes later God walked in the room carrying a tray with a fondue pot and a bottle of Chablis. I would say she was about forty-seven, forty-eight years old, a beautiful, beautiful black woman, and we just immediately hugged. She smelled so good. She said it was Calvin Klein’s Obsession.
We sat down and started drink
ing the Chablis and talking about the weather and what was going to happen to it. I asked her a bunch of questions I was curious about. “What is the hardest thing about being God?”
“Trusting people,” she said. “You never know if people really like ya or if it’s just because you’re God. And people always want something from you. They want money and then they want more money. That’s what they always ask for.”
She told me nobody ever thanks her anymore. The only people who thank her are boxers and rappers, but she said she thinks it’s a little odd that rappers are doing songs like “Slap the Bitch up the Ass,” and the next thing out of their mouth is, “I’d like to thank the Lord Almighty for this award. Praise Jesus!”
“Nobody cares about the miracles anymore,” she continued. “The miracles just go by unnoticed.”
“What was the last miracle?” She started to cry, upset that I had to ask.
“It was the toilet that flushes automatically,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears. “Before that it was the George Foreman grill…the fat just drips right off.”
Well, I guess it was the Chablis making me feel more relaxed or something, but I was loosened up enough to say, “God, I have to admit, I’ve really felt alone a lot. I’ve felt like you didn’t exist. I just didn’t believe in you for a while.”
She said, “Do you remember that day you were walking on the beach?”
I said, “Yeah.”
“Well, I was there.”
“But there was just one set of footprints.”
She said, “I was on your back.”
“I thought I felt heavy that day. I thought it was water retention.”
“No,” she said. “Know when you are bloated, I am there.”
That comforts me.
I’m not going to bore you with everything. We talked about so many things. She told me the meaning of life…stuff like that. Suddenly, in the middle of our conversation, she got up and gently put her arms around me and said it was time for me to go. She had another visitor arriving at 3:30, God explained, and had to wash out the wineglasses and prepare more fondue.
As I waved good-bye to her I had such a feeling of inner peace and tranquillity. I got into my car and noticed that Henry Winkler was walking up to God’s door. He gave me a funny look, but it might’ve been because I was still stark naked.
But who cares? I felt free, finally having a clear picture of just how precious life is, and why we shouldn’t let ourselves be strangled by doubt and fear. I also learned something just as valuable. If I could meet God, I thought, I could meet just about anyone or do just about anything. There’s no reason to live a life of regret. If I really put my mind to it, if I truly believe, one day I could learn how to macramé.
I can only pray.
Gift Exchange
or
The Art of Believable Acting
Author’s Note:
Although I’ve specified the holidays in this chapter, you can apply this advice to all gift-giving and getting situations—except Arbor Day! When it comes to Arbor Day, the only rules are There Are No Rules! Wait, that might be the rules for spring break. I’ll have to check my files.
Sure, when you first read the title of this chapter you thought, “Come on, Ellen, this is one area of my life where your infinite wisdom and eerie insight are not necessary.” But think about it: What time of year is the most stressful, painful, and all-around disappointing? Yes, New Year’s Eve! And that’s because you’re finally releasing all the stress and resentment that the holiday gift-giving season has heaped upon your weary shoulders.
The whole idea of exchanging gifts is much more complicated than most people realize, so stop denying that you need help, unclench your jaw (see, I know what it feels like), and finish this chapter. You’ll never waste another fifty dollars on a last-minute wine and cheese basket again.
Now, you may be thinking, Hey, Ellen, even though you’re being very funny and I enjoy your witty insights and lighthearted ribbing, it really is the thought that counts. If you are thinking that, then I thank you for the compliment, but quit your infernal thinking and listen to me for a second.
The saying “It’s the thought that counts” was coined as an emotional Band-Aid by someone who left all of her shopping until nine o’clock Christmas Eve…or the night before the first day of Hanukah or until right before Kwanzaa or until the twilight of the day of winter solstice. [Please write to my publisher if I forgot to include your chosen cultural gift-giving holiday.] If it’s really the thought that counts, then why don’t we ever tell people what we were thinking when we were scrambling to buy them their last-minute panic gift? “It was less than twenty dollars and I hardly ever see him that much anyway.” We don’t say these things because it’s not the thought of the giver that counts. The “thought that counts” is the thought the getter is thinking after the wrapping paper has been torn away.
If we were really thoughtful, we would buy presents for people that they could, in turn, give away to the people still left on their shopping lists. Your friend could unwrap your gift to find a wrapped gift with his niece’s name right on the tag, ready to go. You just bought him three hours not spent in a mall. Now that’s thoughtful!
It takes this kind of effort and creativity to figure out what would make a good gift for someone. You have to consider what the person likes, what they already have, what they care about, what they need; basically you have to invest a lot of your time. And since time is the one thing none of us has anymore, we end up giving a box-set of Bailey’s Irish Cream liqueur with shot glasses with “Luck o’ the Irish” stamped on the front of them. It looks like a gift, it seems like a gift, but no one ever uses, drinks, or looks at it after December 26…or December 8 or the week of the 12th. [Please write to my publisher if the date you throw away useless gifts was not mentioned above.]
It wasn’t like that back in the good old days, when dear old dad would spend all summer and most of the fall whittling you your own train set out of freshly cut pine. That’s back when thoughts really did count and you could go to the movies all day for a nickel and not get kidnapped. But as times will do, times have changed. If you gave a kid a homemade pine train set today, he would sue you for breach of contract. (Why people sign Christmas contracts with their children these days, I will never know.)
Since we can’t, as adults, get away with throwing bad presents against a wall and bursting into tears, Christmas is the time of year when we all become really good at lying. Lying is just another form of acting, so in a way, we are all actors in a forty-eight-hour play that runs from the 24th through the 25th of December. Again, unless you’re Jewish, in which case you have to fake it for eight days straight. There are people in Los Angeles who pay thousands of dollars for that kind of rigorous training. Last year, my mother should have at least received a Best Actress nomination for her performance after opening the shoe tree my aunt gave her. It was gritty, real, and heart-wrenching; in short, a tour de force.
Because of this widely accepted deceit, it’s very hard to tell if someone really likes the gift you got for them (the eggnog doesn’t help either), so here’s a quick checklist that you can use. You know, for checking.
How to tell if someone doesn’t like the gift you have given them
1. They say, “I love it.”
If they say they love it, you can be sure they hate it. Loving a towel rack makes no sense, so clearly they’re overcompensating for the feelings of guilt and shame about the deeper feelings of anger and resentment they have about being given a towel rack for Christmas. Or maybe they’ve gone insane with rage over getting such an impersonal, utilitarian gift after thirty-five years of marriage. (Just a tip: Never give any kind of rack as a gift. I don’t care how nice the rack is. Yes, even rack of lamb.)
2. They say, “Thank you.”
“Thank you” is such a loaded statement. The nuances are imperceptible, woven with sarcasm, irony, and plain old sass. The person might as well just spit
on your shoe. Special circumstance: If they sigh, shake their head, and stare deeply into your eyes right before they say it, they are an impostor and you should call the police.
3. They say, “Where did you get it?”
The nerve! Why don’t they just say, “Does the store give cash refunds so that I can return this and finally get something I actually want?” Quick fix: Buy all your gifts in Japan. That way, nobody wins.
Epilogue: The Myth of Handmade Gifts
Unreturnable, unusable, unsightly, unfun. These are just some of the words you can use to describe handmade gifts. Unless you’re related to a talented furniture maker, a clothing designer, or you are someone’s grandma, getting a handmade gift for Christmas is never not disappointing. Even grandmas secretly hate them, but society forces them to repress their real feelings about being gypped. Instead, they have to pretend they love multicolored, glitter-covered macaroni sculptures. Why do we put the aged through this kind of strain? They just want a DVD player like everyone else.
When considering giving a homemade gift, just think to yourself, Is this a gift I would like to get? And then think to yourself, Why do I still have this leather-burning tool when putting your name on the back of your belt went out of style in 1976? And then think, Is it right for me to heap the by-products of my knitting hobby onto my friends and family in lieu of buying them actual gifts that cost actual money? And then think, Why am I so selfish? Not just about the crafts, but about everything I do and say. It’s always “Me, me, me” and “Look what I can make and look how fast I can knit.”
I never think about what it would be like to receive a scarf with leather piping that has my name burnt into it. It would be creepy and irritating. Especially because when it’s wrapped, it’s exactly the shape as two bars of gold. There. I think I’ve said my piece.