I love: images of morbidly obese people jiggling down city sidewalks, shot from the neck down for dieting and health segments on the evening news. I imagine most people would be filled with shock and awe and utter embarrassment if they were ever to catch the tail-end of Peter Jennings’ report on chronic obesity and see their own torsos used as evidence. Not me. When I glimpse myself on one of those stories–as I must, someday soon, sporting my favorite Pucci-print, form-fitting lycra chemise and a pair of crushed velvet stirrup pants–I’m going to think to myself, “Damn, I got a whole lotta jelly up in my trunk, and it looks some kinda good! Yes, indeed!”
I hate: the word “couch.” It screams sedentary, lazy, dirty. Couches are soiled. Couches have bits of Cheetos caught between the cushions. Couches are where sick people sprawl while watching Jenny Jones. Sofas, on the other hand, are for conversation and cocktails. On a sofa, I can read Nancy Mitford or Evelyn Waugh, but on a couch, I’m limited to Danielle Steele and Tom Clancy. I use the word “couch” myself sometimes, and I hate myself for it. John Guare would hate me, too.
I love: the way my oldest dog, Gaston, parks himself on the bed at night and stubbornly refuses to move or even change positions, no matter how much I toss and turn.
I hate: people who refer to “the 1700s” or “the 1500s” instead of “the eighteenth century” or “the sixteenth century.” The former is inexact, generalized, whereas the latter simultaneously pinpoints the time and the zeitgeist. People who say things like “Romanticism was big in the 1800s” not only prove that they don’t understand Romanticism, but they sound like idiots, too. I bet they move their lips when they read.
I love: Chisenbop, a snazzy Eastern way of doing math on your fingers. It’s the only acceptable way for anyone over seven years old to count on her hands. When I was a kid, Chisenbop was hot hot hot. For about a week, everyone thought it was going to change educational paradigms. Then we all got bored and moved on to Shrinky Dinks.
I hate: the way friends “miss you, miss you, miss you” when they move away, but three days after their inevitable return, you can’t find them to save your life.
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