Had I known when my alarm rang that Paula Deen was going to ruin my Wednesday, I probably would have just said fuck it and gone back to bed.
“Oh, my Goddddd,” I groaned. “I’m so tiiiiired.” It was 6:15, about the same time I wake up every morning, give or take fifteen minutes. Usually, I spring out of bed with considerable energy, the source of which mystifies me, but not today. Mary had kept me up half the night by wedging herself right up against my kidneys.
Damon was already awake; he had an early patient. “I was waiting for your alarm to go off so I could make coffee,” he said.
In normal living conditions, at least in Western society, one half of a couple can make coffee in the morning without waking the other, but when we renovated our apartment I had the brilliant idea of configuring it as one big, open space. “We’re going to honor the architectural history of the neighborhood and create an authentic Tribeca loft,” I had told anyone who would listen. “The bed will be right smack in the middle of the room. It’s going to be superchic.”
Five years later I want to kick myself in the nuts for sounding like a pretentious asshole. I just hope that eventually we can sell it to another pretentious asshole for three times what we paid for it. But because of the floor plan—which is no floor plan—Damon and I need to be on the same sleep schedule, lest one of us do something ridiculous like open the refrigerator and shine the light in the other’s slumbering face.
The coffeemaker, one of those all-in-one numbers that grinds beans, brews espresso, and steams milk, roared and hissed. A few minutes later, latte in hand, Damon sat at the foot of the bed. “Bad night’s sleep?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks to this pain in the ass,” I answered, referring to Mary, who was listening intently. “Do you see how much room she’s taking up? I’m literally hanging off the side of the bed.” I wasn’t exaggerating. My left arm and shoulder were off the mattress.
“You know, you can train her to sleep on the floor,” he said.
“No, I can’t, Damon,” I said, enunciating both syllables of his name. “She’s been sleeping in our bed for the last seven years. What’s she gonna think when all of a sudden we just throw her on the floor? I’ll tell you what she’s gonna think: She’s gonna think we don’t love her anymore and then she’ll get depressed and wish she was never born.”
Damon told me I was projecting. Or anthropomorphizing. Maybe both. I don’t know. I kind of zoned out, as I usually do at this point in this particular conversation. See, most of the time I enjoy being married to a psychologist. Damon is the most thoughtful, kind, supportive, introspective man I have ever met. When we argue, which is rarely, I find myself saying things like, “I’m sorry for acting out, but I’m frustrated by the events of the day,” or “Let’s step back and examine our rage for a moment.” It’s actually kind of amazing. But when Damon has the audacity to imply that my relationship with Mary is slightly cuckoo, I want to rip out a chunk of his perfect hair.
I’m not an idiot. I know everyone thinks Mary is a dog. And she may very well be, but there’s also a very distinct possibility, as far as I’m concerned, that she’s a human being trapped in a thirteen-pound Jack Russell terrier’s body, albeit a human being who’s obsessed with smelling random puddles of piss on the sidewalk. And so I give her everything she could ever need to live an emotionally fulfilling life: organic freeze-dried chicken, filtered water, treats baked in small batches by local artisans, weekend hikes on the Appalachian Trail, spa days, et cetera.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m just being silly. I’ll start training Mary to sleep in her own bed tonight.” All three of us know I am lying through my porcelain-veneered teeth.
I gently rubbed Mary’s velvety belly, wrested myself from bed, and shuffled across the concrete floors toward the bathroom, where the morning’s clothes awaited me. I had laid them on the vanity the night before with the intention of leaving for work as quickly as possible. Since the renovation, I’ve learned how to get ready for work in just fifteen minutes. Of course it helps that ABC employs a team of people to dress and groom me. I’m really only responsible for brushing my own teeth and maintaining my private parts. They do the rest!
I left the apartment after kissing Damon and Mary good-bye on their mouths. Damon insists I do it in that order for sanitary reasons, though I suspect it’s a hierarchy thing. As per our usual arrangement, he will drop Mary off at the sitter on his way to work. Heading to the subway, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop and ordered a flat white for my walk. It’s a few short blocks away and usually the most tranquil part of my day. At this time of year, the sun and streetlamps halfheartedly compete to illuminate the sidewalks, pigeons coo from window ledges above, and deliverymen unload palettes of bread from big square trucks. Even the 1 train provides a sense of calm this early. A tacit understanding exists among the burly construction men, dozing hospital workers, bankers, and myself: Let’s start this day in peace.
In my orange plastic seat, I opened my e-mail to read the itinerary my assistant, Jackie, sent me the night before.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
7:30 a.m.
Call time at The Chew.
Production meeting.
Rehearsal.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe.
8:45 a.m.
Shoot Episode #756 “The Chew’s Spring Break!”
Airs same day. You’re making your macadamia-crusted chicken with mango and pineapple salsa in segments 2 and 3.
Guest: Paula Deen. She’s cooking with Michael Symon later in the show.
9:45 a.m.
Meet with Jennifer re: upcoming interview with Mekhi Phifer. Meet with Katie re upcoming cocktail segment. Meet with Brad re: upcoming Clinton’s Craft Corner.
11:00 a.m.
Rehearsal.
Hair and makeup touch-ups. Change wardrobe.
12:15 p.m.
Shoot The Chew, Episode #759 “Fast ’n’ Fresh.”
Air Date: 3/16/15 (You don’t have much to do in this show, but Alonna and her sister will be in the audience.)
1:15 p.m.
Wrap The Chew.
2:00 p.m.
Stop by office.
Pay bills.
Post on Facebook and Twitter about new web content.
Meet with Jill re: Macy’s Orange County event.
Call Kate to discuss styling for new TLC show.
SIGN INCOME TAX EXTENSION FORMS!
4:00 p.m.
Workout.
6:00 p.m.
Dinner with Emily (You put this in the calendar yourself. Do you need me to make reservations somewhere?)
9:00 p.m.
Pick up dog from sitter.
The day appeared to be rather typical, though my eyes did hover for an extra half second on Paula Deen’s name, just enough time for a quick flutter of dread to wash over me. Nothing too ill-boding, more like the kind of feeling you get when you’re reminded that later in the day you have an appointment for your annual prostate exam.
I’ve never really been a fan of Paula’s, but that’s the way life is. Maybe her essence whispers sweet nothings to your very soul. I, however, find her shtick more annoying than a hangnail. And just for the record, it’s not about her Southern heritage or Southern food in general, because I’m quite fond of many Southern people and Southern food can be freakin’ delicious. Before I met Paula, my distaste for her was probably due to her seeming, in my opinion, very one-note—and that note is butter, y’all! Then I met her in person during the The Chew’s first season and, while I really wanted to like the woman, her good old-fashioned “charm” struck me as completely artificial. Then came her N-word scandal, and after that she admitted to her fans that she had Type 2 diabetes—two years after her doctors diagnosed her but only after securing a lucrative diabetes drug contract, and in the interim continuing to push an unhealthy lifestyle. So, eh, I’m not a fan. And I get the feeling she knows it.
I have little, if any, say regarding the guests who appear on The Chew because I am a host and not a producer. And even though I like the show’s producers very much, they have a history with Paula, having produced her show on Food Network for many years. So when she’s booked on the show, I say hello and welcome her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. That’s what I’m paid to do and I do it relatively convincingly.
Today Paula made her entrance in the second-to-last segment of the show, teaming up with Michael Symon to demonstrate her recipe for chicken wings, while I sat nearby with my other cohosts, Daphne Oz, Carla Hall, and Mario Batali. When it comes to presenting a recipe clearly and efficiently, Michael is quite possibly the best in the business, but the interaction I witnessed between him and Paula made absolutely no sense. He might as well have been interviewing a crack-smoking unicorn about how to make a rainbow sandwich. Seriously. I knew less about how to make chicken wings after Paula’s demo than I did before it even began, which means she was actually able to destroy existing neural pathways in my brain pertaining to the effects of heat on poultry.
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 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.
“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.