by Rita Rudner
I became even more suspicious of It’sNotMyFault when none of the equipment he arrived with came with instructions, bills, warranties, or even boxes. The DVD player, VCR, CD player, and receiver were all top-of-the-line, It’s Not boasted.
“What do we do if it breaks?” I asked.
“Call me and I’ll…find…I mean, I’ll buy you a new one.”
It’s Not was a man of his word. Within the first six months nearly every component proved to be defective, and within weeks he arrived with an unwrapped, semi-new one.
“It’s not my fault,” It’s Not would say. “My supplier is letting me down.”
What is even more likely is that his “supplier” couldn’t find him. It’s Not’s home phone had been disconnected and he was now reachable only by a cell phone that he refused to answer. When we left a message the call was always returned within the month and a creative excuse was concocted to explain the delay.
“I lost it.” “Someone stole it.” “I was in the hospital getting a knee replacement.” That last one was my personal favorite. That took imagination.
No mechanical gadget was overlooked in my husband’s playroom.
“Why do we need a remote control for the curtains?” I asked. “We can just pull them closed. It’s not like we can’t reach them. I can simply walk to the window, the same way I do in every other room in the house.”
“It’s all in,” my husband explained. “We might as well get everything. It was included in the quote.”
The personal remote control box that activated the DVD player, VCR, CD player, curtains, and TV is in fact a triumph. It is so simple even a child can use it and so heavy only a professional wrestler can lift it. It also has to be left on the charger at all times or else it will run out of juice and have to be reprogrammed.
I have not yet begun to talk about speakers. Since we were building the room from scratch, the speakers were to be inserted into the wall. They would be as inconspicuous as they would be powerful. They would also be spaced unevenly the first time. The subsequent redrilling took place after the ultra-sensitive projection screen had been assembled. A mysterious scratch appeared on the screen, caused by either It’s Not or IDidn’t. We could never determine which one was the culprit. I only know it wasn’t their able assistant, INeverShowUp.
We disagreed on the seating. My husband wanted theater chairs that reclined, but because the door had been repositioned due to the size of the screen, large chairs that weren’t flush against the back wall would have made it challenging for even a gymnast to enter the room. So we decided on a large sofa that my husband is dissatisfied with to this day.
While the rest of our fairly large apartment took about six months to finish, this smallest room in the house took over a year. The wall covering needed special glue. IDidn’t chose to apply this glue on our balcony, leaving a stain that says a big hello to me whenever I slide open the door.
“It will disappear over time,” IDidn’t promised, neglecting to indicate which generation would finally walk out onto our balcony and not say, “What the hell is this?”
In the end, was it worth it? My husband says yes, and reluctantly I agree with him. The screen is fantastic, the sound is crisp, and when we rent a DVD it is a luxury to be able to sit in our own home theater and say, “Boy, this is a crappy movie.”
* * *
I was a boring kid. Whenever we played doctor, the other children always made me the anesthesiologist.
* * *
The Abbreviation Generation
ONE OF THE MANY TECHNOLOGICAL INNOVATIONS I didn’t see coming was texting. I was introduced to texting by Lindsay, my friend’s fourteen-year-old daughter. I didn’t know what she had to say to her friend that was so important, but there she was, in the corner by herself, typing madly into her phone. I sauntered over to try to understand.
“What does ‘LOL’ mean?” I asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Laugh out loud,” Lindsay replied with barely concealed derision.
“Makes sense. So I guess ‘cn u c me 2nite?’ means ‘Can you see me tonight?’”
“Yes.” She sighed.
I peered over her shoulder as she attempted to turn away, and caught a glimpse of her friend’s response: “Cnt w8t 2 c u 2.”
Lindsay typed, “Cnt tlk nw.”
“‘Can’t talk now.’ Why can’t you talk now?” I asked.
“Because you’re looking over my shoulder,” Lindsay said, stuffing her phone in her handbag.
“I c,” I said, taking the hint and sauntering back whence I’d come.
IM, or instant messaging, is for me the most irritating of the new forms of meaningless communication. I’ll be typing a vital e-mail and suddenly something not authored by me will appear on the screen. In a way, IM is a kind of schoolyard power play: stop doing whatever you’re doing and play with me.
“Hi, Rta, whssup?” popped up on my computer screen a few days ago. Lindsay, who didn’t want to talk to me at all when I was actually in the room with her, now wanted to have a casual conversation with me when I was across town and busy doing something else.
“Bsy,” I replied, using my new form of vowel-less verbiage.
I guess Lndsy was offended by my lack of response because she hasn’t IM’d me lately.
The abbreviation that makes the least sense to me these days is “Have a good one.” Logically, the meaning of “Have a good one” is “Have a good day.” Day and one not only have the same number of letters, they each have one syllable. Where are we saving time here?
Whatever is another popular contemporary expression. It is all-encompassing and yet noncommittal at the same time.
“I hate you.”
“Whatever.”
“I love you.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m leaving you.”
“Have a good one.”
But even this one word isn’t brief enough. Whatever has now itself been distilled to my new favorite abbreviation: evs.
Evs exhibits a disaffected ennui that demonstrates you can’t even be bothered to form the three syllables that would convey your disinterest. You’re on top of things, and no matter what occurs you will survive.
It doesn’t stop there. Abbreviations are now being reduced to symbols. I always thought on and off were two of the briefest yet most efficient words in the English language. What have they done that is so wrong that they can’t live on my phone anymore? As I stare at the keyboard of my new cell phone, it appears to me that those simple words have been replaced by a shoe and a feather. If I want to make a call, I don’t know whether to press stomp or tickle.
So I have concluded today’s generation has become so sophisticated in the age of too much communication that we now have no need to use words and we’re gradually reverting back to hieroglyphics.
Evs. ~*-^.
* * *
My grandmother was a very tough cookie. She buried three husbands. Two of them were just napping.
* * *
The Advantage of Vintage
ATTENDING A PARTY THE OTHER NIGHT, I LOOKED down at what I was wearing and thought, You know you’re getting older when you’re wearing vintage Chanel and you’re the original owner. I remembered buying this ridiculously expensive outfit twelve years ago and thinking I was crazy, but amortized through the years it had turned out to be a good investment.
At the time, I’d told my husband that it was a good investment, and he said, “An investment is when you put money into something and when you take it out you have more money.”
I’d replied, “An investment is also when you put money into something and when you go to take it out there’s nothing there. We’ve made a lot of those investments. At least I can wear this one.”
It’s true that good clothes last forever. It’s also true that cheap ones last a long time too. For instance, I have T-shirts I can’t throw away because they’re good for when I condition my hair. I also have stockings with holes in them that
I can wear under slacks. You get the idea. One of the harsh facts of life is that as you get older, your wardrobe expands and your closet seems smaller. I’ve had to begin piling sweaters on top of shelves that NBA players couldn’t reach. I’m not the only one with this problem; I read that Cher bought the house next door to hers and converted it into a closet. I don’t know how long I’m going to live, but I’m saving up my money in case I have to buy the house next door.
One of the pluses of age is that things you have owned in the past come back into style. I’ve learned the hard way never to discard any article of clothing in my closet. One of my few regrets in life is a leopard jacket (fake; don’t get mad at me) that I gave to a friend of mine. Leopard was so over that year. I was absolutely sure that the only time anyone would ever see that print again was at the zoo. In fact, leopard was so passé, I felt the actual animal might even be eliminated from the feline exhibition. That was a mere five years ago, and this year leopards are everywhere. They’re on feet, hands, waists, heads, handbags, and most of all my friend’s torso. She still wears my jacket, and every time I see her pairing it with black slacks and looking chic, I want it back.
I did, however, learn my lesson. I’d thought peasant skirts had seen the end of their life expectancy, but last year they were more ubiquitous than pigeons in a park. I was ready. There was a store that I used to frequent when I lived in New York twenty years ago that constructed long flowing skirts out of antique fabrics. Being a big believer in covering my legs and not wanting to wear jeans every single day, I bought three of them: a black lace one, an apricot organza one, and a navy velvet one. I’ve moved many times, and each time I’ve looked at the skirts I thought it was time to separate from them but couldn’t. They’ve joined me in seven different houses. For twenty years I’ve seen them peeking at me from the back of each closet. I could almost hear them saying, Is it time for me again yet? Am I going out today? and, sometimes sadly, Why don’t you love me anymore? What did I do that was so wrong?
I am proud to say that this year, I’ve worn two of them, the black one and the blue one. I updated them slightly by adding a few chain belts. I’d already owned the belts but had worn them separately. I put four together and all of a sudden they were trendy. Each time I’ve ventured out wearing one of my antique skirts, young women have come up to me and asked me where I bought it. I tell them, “I bought it in a store in New York that no longer exists. I carted it around with me through seven different houses. I waited patiently for twenty years, and at the right moment I paired it with some tarnished belts and, voilà, it’s something you want. You can’t have it. You’re not vintage.”
I was happily providing housing for clothes I might never again touch when I got a notice in my mailbox from a resale store. It said, “Are you wasting closet space on things you no longer wear? Bring your clothes to me and I’ll sell them for you. I’m Susie the Spacemaker.” There was even a handwritten P.S. on the bottom that said, “Rita, I have lots of customers your size.” I couldn’t tell if it was real or if it was computer-printed (marketers are so adept at writing lies on junk mail these days), but I realized it could be a sign that the universe was telling me to let go, and so I made the trek to visit Susie.
The neighborhood was a little dicey. Susie was located in between a massage parlor and a cheap motel. I rang the doorbell. I was scrutinized and eventually buzzed in. The place smelled like old wool. Women were busily holding dated clothing up to themselves in front of mirrors and then disappearing into the changing booths.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said the frazzled saleswoman working the cash register. “There,” she said to the customer, wrapping up a coat, a pants suit, and an evening dress. “All that, and for only sixty dollars.”
“Thank you, Susie.”
“No, thank you, Stacey. See you again soon.”
I was jealous. There were women out there who weren’t like Cher and me. There were women out there who could let go of their clothes and let other people enjoy them. There were women out there who had room in their closets for new purchases and who didn’t have to pile them to Pluto.
“That is a good deal,” I said to Stacey, admiring her purchases. “I love that coat—I love the collar and I love the shape. And I saw you try it on. It fits you perfectly.”
“I know,” Stacey said. “It’s mine. I’m buying it back.”
Evidently, Cher and I have company.
* * *
These days it seems everybody has a tattoo. I would never get one, but luckily, on my left leg, I have a vein in the shape of a ship.
* * *
The Proof Is in the Child
BECOMING A MOTHER LATE IN LIFE DID NOT PREVENT me from worrying about absolutely everything that occurred in the course of our child’s development.
Although our daughter is, of course, a genius, she was not an early crawler. She was, however, an early roller. At seven months, she had mastered the roll so thoroughly there was no need for her to crawl. She could roll wherever she wanted to. I would hold her bottle across the room and she would roll to it. I would tempt her with her favorite bunny and she would roll to it. I pictured her wedding: the guests waiting, the groom watching, and my daughter rolling down the aisle.
Children develop different skills at different times, the child-rearing encyclopedia explained. Don’t worry if your child isn’t doing the same things as other children.
I repeated that mantra in my mind as I watched my baby propel herself across the room like a drunk while my friend Sheri’s little boy, who was the same age, crawled around the room quicker than a crab on crack.
“Her bottom has to be up in the air,” Sheri told me. “If you get her bottom up in the air, everything else follows naturally.”
I would lift Molly’s bottom up in the air and say, “Hand, hand, foot, foot.” Instead of moving forward, when I let her go she would collapse on the rug and, of course, roll to her chosen destination. I decided to let my child move diagonally until it occurred to her that there were easier ways to travel.
At about eight and a half months, Molly created a kind of soldier-shimmy across the floor as if she were avoiding enemy fire. It would take her approximately ten minutes to travel two feet. The good news was she had stopped rolling, and the better news was she was now very slowly cleaning our floors. As her shimmy became more and more adept I became confident that the army was in her future.
Molly began to crawl at ten months. It was only then that I realized the joy of having a baby that didn’t yet crawl. All those blessed times when I could leave her in one place, turn my head for an instant, and expect her to be in roughly the same place when I turned back were over. Now, although not a crab on crack, she was certainly a turtle on speed. Of course, by now Sheri’s little boy was already standing.
“You need a portable playpen,” Sheri advised. “Clayton loves it. That’s how he learned how to stand. He pulls himself around in a circle all day, and boy, does he get tired.”
That sounded good to me, especially since at night I performed my live stage show and at Molly’s nap time I attempted to write this book. We ordered a playpen with a disco. It included a musical chicken as well as balls the baby could prod and pound. My husband fastened the hinges of the playpen/disco together and we waited for the magic to happen. Very quickly Molly discovered the musical chicken. I’ve never heard “Old McDonald” played in a disco, but then I don’t get out much.
Instead of supporting herself and moving around the playpen and learning to stand, Molly decided that the playpen was a movable environment. She used her head to push the playpen to wherever she wanted to be.
It was another month before Molly could stand and make her way around the playpen like a baby inmate looking at freedom over a colored plastic wall. Of course, by now, Sheri’s little boy was walking.
“You mean you don’t have a walker?” Sheri asked incredulously. “That’s how Clayton learned. You sit them in the middle and they wheel thems
elves around. It’s great. You don’t have to carry them around all the time and they develop coordination.”
The walker was less of a learning device and more of a weapon. Who decided it was wise to give a baby a set of wheels? Every time we turned around, a rolling plastic table sailed into our shins. After a few unfortunate encounters with his tail, our dog took refuge underneath my desk and only came out when the wheeling monster was asleep.
At about thirteen months Molly began to walk. It was actually more of a stagger. She would take a few steps and then, without warning, just tip over like a table that had three legs. Of course, by now Clayton was running.
“Have you childproofed your house yet?” Sheri inquired.
“No, not yet.”
“You’d better do it soon,” she warned. “Now that Molly’s walking she’ll be into everything. The other day Clayton opened our liquor cabinet and tried to mix a martini.”
The next day, my husband and I drove to our favorite store, Babies Are Expensive, and stocked up on devices designed to prevent babies from harming themselves.
We bought:
1. Plastic table-corner covers, none of which fit the dimensions of any of our tables.
2. Locks for our sliding glass doors that already had locks.
3. A lock for our toilet lid to prevent our child from drowning that also prevented me from going to the bathroom.
4. Drawer stoppers that had to be drilled into the wood of our cabinetry.
5. And the only thing we really needed—plastic covers for our electrical outlets, which cost fifty cents.
