I Hate Everyone, Except You Read online

  During the commercial break, our off-camera kitchen team placed a huge platter piled with three different types of goo-covered chicken wings on the table in front of the hosts. Evidently, this was the finished product of all that nonsense, as if somehow during the three minutes between segments, Paula magically became lucid and just whipped up lunch for thirty people.

  “What’s on these things?” I asked Daphne, who sat next to me. “I don’t know what the hell just happened.”

  “Me either,” she said. “I think the pile on the right is peanut butter and jelly sauce. The ones on the left have green pepper jelly. The ones in the middle . . . I have no idea.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was experiencing one of those very rare moments when I didn’t like my job but—and I want to make this very clear—knew that in the grand scheme of things it was really no big fucking deal. I wasn’t banging rocks in a diamond mine. I wasn’t brokering a peace deal between the Koreas. I wasn’t administering the polio vaccine to poor kids in Appalachia. My job was to smile for the camera and eat a goddamn piece of chicken. And I had every intention of doing just that.

  As the commercial break ended and Michael reintroduced Paula to the viewing audience, I speared a wing off the platter with my fork and put it on the small plate in front of me. And after using my knife to scrape off, as discreetly as possible, some of the green pepper jelly sauce, I realized I had a crucial decision to make: Should I cut the meat off the chicken wing and bring it to my mouth with the fork I’m already holding? Or should I put down the fork and knife and eat the wing with my fingers, which as we know is the usual and accepted method of eating chicken wings in the United States of America.

  I was at a fork in the road with a fork in my hand.

  Screw it, I thought. I’ll just quickly put some of this chicken in my mouth . . . with a fork.

  Well, that didn’t escape the preternaturally blue-eyed gaze of Miss Paula Deen. “What are you doin’,” she drawl-screeched, “eatin’ that with a fork and knife?!?”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  Rather than explain my reasoning—the fork was in my hand, the wings had too much sauce, it was nine thirty in the morning, and these wings are about as appealing to me as a shit sandwich—I decided to laugh it off.

  “Who, me?” I joked, dropping my utensils and picking up the wing with my fingers. It’s just the easiest way out, I figured. I’ll laugh at myself, and she’ll stop acting like she’s Blanche DuBois who just walked in on Stanley Kowalski dipping his dick in the lemonade.

  But she didn’t drop it. She exclaimed on live-to-tape television, “You look like the turd in the punchbowl!”

  That fucking bitch, I thought. What I wanted to say was: You’re a guest on the show I cohost, a national network daytime talk show watched by about 3 million people a day, including my husband, friends, parents, and grandparents, serving me the most revolting thing I’ve had to eat in years, and you have enough rocks in your ball sack to call me a turd. If I had any pull whatsoever on this show, your ass would never be on it. But I’m a professional, so I said, “I’ve been called worse by better.”

  It was partially true. I have been called worse. Much worse. But not necessarily by anyone better. And certainly not on television.

  The show ended a few minutes later, and I waved a quick good-bye to the studio audience. I usually shake a few hands and take a few photos to show my appreciation for their attendance, but I was too furious to interact with strangers. So I detached my microphone and headed to my dressing room.

  We shot the next show a few hours later, which was completely uneventful. Except for my terse exchange with Paula, the workday was the kind I forget about immediately upon leaving the studio. But I was in a foul mood, so I decided to ask my friend Emily if she would take a rain check for dinner. She did. I went to my meetings and my workout, and as I exited the gym, I received a text from Damon: “Do you want to grab dinner?”

  “I can meet you at Odeon in ten minutes,” I answered.

  “Perfect! See you there.”

  I arrived first and the hostess, a very chic woman named Roya, led me to a table in the corner. I ordered a French 75, a delicious combination of gin, lemon juice, sugar, and champagne, which is named for a World War I gun famous for its ability to fire shrapnel. Damon walked in shortly thereafter, looking as handsome as a man can, in a gray tweed sport coat with elbow patches over a powder-blue cardigan and white button-front shirt. At times like these I wonder how his patients don’t fall madly in love with him. Maybe they do, and he doesn’t tell me.

  Damon ordered a beer, and I asked him about his workday.

  “Fine,” he said, which kind of pissed me off. He always says his work day is fine, which is Damon’s way of telling me what I already know: Everything that occurs in his office is confidential. I get it. Doctor-patient blah blah blah. In theory I’m all for it. God knows I don’t want my therapist discussing my neuroses with his significant other over a Cobb salad. (“Next time we come here I’m going to ask for less Roquefort and more avocado. The balance is a little off. Oh, get this, Clinton Kelly is convinced that his friends and family actually hate him but are being nice to him only out of some twisted sense of obligation. Ha. What a douche.”) But sometimes I would like to hear about other people’s problems, if only to gauge my own level of fucked-upness. No such luck tonight.

  “How was your day?” Damon asked.

  “Oh, you know, the usual,” I said. “Two Chews and some other stuff. Oh, and Paula Deen called me a turd in the punchbowl.”

  “Charming. How did that come about?”

  I relayed the story to Damon—the fork, the wing, the sauce—and he asked me exactly what you’d expect a psychologist to ask: “And how do you feel about that?”

  Sometimes I tell him not to therapize me, but not this evening. I kind of wanted my head shrunk. “I’m pretty pissed off,” I said. “What kind of guest calls the host of a show a turd? So vulgar. But I also don’t care, you know? Paula Deen doesn’t like me. Who gives a shit? I should wear that turd like a badge of honor.”

  “Or like a necklace,” Damon said.

  Confused, I asked, “A necklace?”

  “Like in Priscilla Queen of the Desert.” And he quoted: “ ‘What are you telling me . . . this is an ABBA turrrrd?’ ”

  We laughed loud enough to attract the attention of other diners, most of whom smiled at us, as if they had been in on the joke. I always like when that happens; it reminds me that people actually want to see other people happy.

  We finished our dinner and walked a few blocks to pick up Mary from the sitter. The sun, having set not too long ago, left a purplish stain on the sky. And save for some clanging at a nearby construction site, our neighborhood was almost as peaceful as it had been that morning. I asked Damon to hold Mary’s leash so I could check my phone, which was vibrating thanks to two texts from my mother. Evidently she had just watched The Chew on DVR. The first text read, “Paula Deen. Rude, huh?” And the second contained two emojis: the smiling pile of poo and the yellow face baring its teeth. So my mother had indeed heard Paula Deen call me a turd. How embarrassing is that?

  I slowed my walk down to text my mother back (“Yeah, she’s pure class,” plus the pig emoji) and fell about twenty steps behind Damon and Mary. When I looked up from my phone, I noticed they were crossing the street ahead of me. Technically they were jaywalking, but there was barely any traffic. Plus, the city has been in the process of replacing the Tribeca water mains for over a year, so the nearby crosswalks were closed. As Damon and Mary stepped onto the sidewalk, a car slowly making a left turn came fairly close to hitting them, which was completely unnecessary. And then I saw the driver lower his window and turn his bald head back toward Damon and Mary, as if he were about to say something nasty.

  Not today, prick, I thought. I’m not in the mood for a smart mouth. So, I walked up to the other side of his car and gave it a good swift kick in the ass from the opposite side. Not a da
inty tip-of-the-shoe tap, but a full-sole thump to his passenger-side fender (though, sadly, it wasn’t enough of a thump to leave a dent). The driver, a rough-looking guy in his late thirties, stopped his car in the middle of the block and got out.

  “What the fuck was that?” he yelled.

  “You almost ran me over!” I yelled back. “You should really watch where you’re going.” Okay, it was a whitish lie. He almost ran over my husband and dog, not me. But he could have run me over. He wasn’t watching where he was going because he had his head cocked out the window.

  Damon and Mary stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the scene in puzzled horror. I continued walking toward them, my back to the furious driver. I glanced over my shoulder at him, wondering if he was aiming a gun in our general direction. Luckily he was not, but he did reach under his dashboard. Maybe that’s where he keeps his gun, I thought. But then I saw his trunk pop open. I’ve seen enough angry white man movies to know this means “I’ve got a crowbar (or baseball bat) in my trunk and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “Are we gonna do this?” he barked.

  Do this? I thought. That doesn’t make any sense. How can I “do this” without a crowbar of my own? That’s like challenging a guy with no legs to a kickboxing match.

  “Go fuck yourself, asshole!” I yelled and turned around. “Let’s go,” I said to Damon under my breath. “Now.”

  We were just a block away from our apartment, where we would be safe from any more confrontation. Damon looked at me as though a third nipple had just sprouted out of my forehead. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I have some anger issues.”

  “You think?”

  We both laughed nervously. I took this as a good sign that Damon wasn’t considering divorcing me for being a complete lunatic. But then I realized if I were a nutjob whose car was just firmly thumped, I’d probably drive around the block to see where the two gays with the little white dog lived. So that’s when I said to Damon in a low but firm voice: “Pick up the dog and run.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Pick up the dog and run, before that guy has time to make it around the block!”

  But, no, he didn’t run. The man who does some form of cardio about five days a week won’t move his ass faster than a leisurely stroll when I tell him to. He’s on his own, I figured. I grabbed Mary’s leash out of his hand, scooped her up under my arm like a football, and hightailed it down the street.

  When I arrived at our front door, I saw that Damon had quickened his pace to a light trot, the way grandpa might power walk around the mall for exercise.

  “Hurry up!” I yelled, holding the door open for him.

  “I’m wearing loafers,” he said.

  When he finally made it inside, I looked around to make sure the angry driver hadn’t come around the corner. “Whew, that was close,” I said.

  Damon seemed more amused than concerned about retaliation. “This is really not like you.”

  “Yeah. No shit.”

  I could hardly sleep again that night, not because of the dog. But because I let someone get under my skin. And because of that I acted aggressively toward someone who may or may not have deserved it. If you’re the guy whose car I kicked that night, I’m sorry. I feel like the turd in the punchbowl for doing it. Please forgive me.

  FREAKIN’ FABULOUS, THE SITCOM

  As far as I can tell there are only two activities in which I participate for no purpose other than fueling ridiculous fantasies: buying lottery tickets and writing sitcom scripts.

  At any given time a half-dozen Mega Millions tickets lie crumpled at the bottom of my briefcase or gym bag, completely oblivious to the fact that they have zero chance of ever being scanned or manually checked against winning numbers in a newspaper. What’s the point? I know my odds of contracting chlamydia from a Peruvian nun are greater than those of winning a hundred million dollars, and I don’t care. I pay the Idiot Tax—you gotta be in it to win it!—so I can spend the following hour, sometimes more, sometimes less, thinking about all the philanthropic and completely selfish things I’d do with the money, stuff like opening a sanctuary for neglected dogs, paying for my nephews’ college tuitions, buying an apartment in Paris, and, if I win the really big jackpot, buying Twitter just so I can unplug the fucking thing.

  Creating sitcoms serves a similar purpose. I’ll stay in bed for the weekend, usually only if the weather’s crappy in Connecticut, scribbling away with my favorite pen in a Moleskine notebook and bringing to life silly characters loosely based on people I know. I’ll imagine which actors will play the roles, what the sets should look like, which lines will get the most laughter when delivered correctly. And when I’m done, I throw the notebook in a drawer, never to be opened again.

  Damon occasionally suggests that I show a script to my agent, but I can’t be bothered, I say. Hollywood will just ruin everything. Some prepubescent network executive will suggest the main character, a sexually repressed, middle-aged physics professor, be played by Khloé Kardashian or insist that instead of San Francisco the show take place in Wichita because San Francisco is “where all the gays live—doesn’t play well in the red states.” I prefer to let these things live in my mind, where I control everything.

  Here, I’m including a sitcom script about a makeover show I wrote during a sleet storm that lasted two days. We could barely step outside the house because everything was covered in a solid inch of ice. Even our dog, Mary, was getting frustrated trying to pee. In her canine urinary crouch, she’d slide down the driveway like one of those Olympic curling stones. It was hilarious. In the evening over a bottle of port, Damon and I joked that we should bring a couple of brooms outside with us and furiously sweep the ice ahead of her to see how much speed she could gain. Maybe see if she could knock down a few frozen squirrels set up like bowling pins.

  Just FYI: Don’t try to read between the lines for hidden digs at my What Not to Wear coworkers. Seriously. It’s complete fiction. No, seriously.

  CHARACTERS:

  CHETLEY MELBOURNE, 45, hails from New Canaan, Connecticut. He’s a clothing stylist with a penchant for breaking into Broadway show tunes. He’s quirky, slightly snobby, mildly insecure, and impeccably dressed in an Old Hollywood style. Chetley began his career as a wardrobe intern on “Miss Saigon” and moved to Los Angeles when the show’s star, Lea Salonga, was invited to sing “A Whole New World” at the Oscars. (“They sent me there to steam her gown and I never looked back!”) Ever since his divorce two years ago, he’s been unable to find love because, as he says, “When you’re a gay single man over the age of 35 in Los Angeles, you might as well be a straight single woman over the age of 35 in Los Angeles—invisible.”

  SHARNAY SIMMONS, 42, is originally from Toronto, where she attended a prestigious all-girls boarding school. At the age of 16 she was arrested for using a fake ID to enter a club during a weekend outing in New York City. On the bright side, a model scout had also been arrested that night for cocaine possession. The result was a lucrative and lengthy modeling career for Sharnay, which allowed her to travel the world, fine-tune her sense of style, and eventually become a fashion stylist on “You Look Fabulous.”

  MINNIE MAI, 21, is a half-Chinese, half-Jewish makeup artist from Minneapolis. When her parents would not let her skip college to pursue a Hollywood makeup career, she doubled up on classes at Northwestern University and finished her bachelor’s degree in chemistry in two years. While in school she created a popular blog called “Mai Face” in which she tested every cosmetic known to womankind. It quickly became rated as the best beauty blog by many major women’s magazines. Minnie is energetic, smart (though a little immature), media-savvy, and always clad in the latest trends.

  JUAN CARLOS RODRIGUEZ, 33, is a modern-day Warren Beatty in “Shampoo.” He’s Puerto Rican–American, very charming, and very attractive. His hairstyling career began in his mother’s shop in the South Bronx, where she p
ut him to work at the age of 12 to keep him out of trouble. He eventually worked his way up to styling hair in Manhattan’s most exclusive salons and writing a very popular blog called “Whoomp, Hair It Is.” Juan Carlos is very aware of his good looks and is an equal-opportunity flirt, causing others to frequently question his sexuality.

  FIONA WHITTINGCOMB, 39, is the executive producer of “You Look Fabulous.” Originally from London, Fiona is the queen of makeover television, having produced several shows in the genre for the BBC. Fiona comes off as superior and judgmental, not just because she’s British, but because she’s also a bitch.

  ACT ONE

  FADE IN:

  Montage of clips from “You Look Fabulous”—a flashy makeover show.

  CHETLEY (V.O.) Hi. My name is Chetley Melbourne, the guy from “You Look Fabulous.” I know, I know, you love that show. And why shouldn’t you. It’s the most successful makeover series in the history of television. “You Look Fabulous” stars me—that’s Chetley Melbourne if you weren’t paying attention—and Sharnay Simmons, as well as [BLEEP] and [BLEEP]. Well, it doesn’t star [BLEEP] and [BLEEP] anymore. Those two got fired, just earlier today as a matter of fact, and evidently things got a little ugly.

  Security cam footage of one woman, face blurred, throwing punches wildly at guards, and a man, face blurred, on his hands and knees begging and sobbing.

  CHETLEY (V.O.) (CONT’D) Sharnay and I did not get fired, although I wouldn’t have minded too much. She and I have been hosting this show for nine years. That’s a long time to be saying the same crap, over and over and over.

  Repetitive clips of Sharnay and Chetley exclaiming “You look fabulous!” to women who have been made over.

  CHETLEY (V.O.) (CONT’D) I guess I shouldn’t complain about my job. It pays the mortgage . . . on my mansion!