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 dainty 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.