My husband Thomas Friedman is so mad at me. He was all happy today because Nicky K. and John Tierney called to praise "his" latest column "Reaping What It Sowed." When not watching NBC's Passions, my husband Thomas Friedman spent the whole day on the phone with either Nicky K. or John Tierney, his "loyal subjects" as he calls them. (He is no longer blaming Tierney or Kristof for Gail Collins switching the op-ed schedules. He does still blame Collins and entertains thoughts of an "extreme makeover" wherein he plucks Collin's "bushy brows" forceably.)
During a commercial break in Saved by the Bell, Thomas Friedman came into the kitchen to ask of his prune juice. "Where the hell is it!" he said in his typical Friedman manner, "You're slower than Sunkist!"
As I continued squeezing the prunes, he entertained me with tall tales of a florist downtown that had told him today that he was "the most incredible columnist in the world." Then he told of a baker who informed him that he was "the most incredible columnist in the world." As he was telling me of a cabbie, I interrupted to say, "Let me guess, he said you were the most incredible columnist in the world!"
Thomas Friedman looked so mad and so hurt.
But he has worn that shortie robe all morning. Even after his grape jelly slid off his piece of toast while he watched his DVD of That Darn Cat! and I begged him to change it so I could clean the stain before it set.
As I handed him his glass of prune juice, he looked sheepish and then offered, "You did a fine job, Bettina. Obviously, I have tutored you well. I am a one-man Sylvian Learning Institute.
To think of how stupid you were only weeks ago . . ."
His voice trailed off as Thomas Friedman apparently ran out of sweet things to say.
Slamming back the glass of prune juice, Thomas Friedman then handed me the cup and asked for more and to "hurry because I think Slater's going to get some and I haven't seen this episode of Saved by the Bell before!"
I told my big-assed couch potato that it was quite easy to write the column.
"All I had to do," I said as I squeezed more prunes, "was to forget everything about human decency and the rights to self-rule, to think like a fat assed imperialist stooge and then the words just came to me."
Thomas Friedman was sputtering and stammering and then he started screaming.
"Bettina, you stupid, backward child!" Thomas Friedman hissed. "Iraq left to its own devices is nothing! We must remake the world over in our image! They are stupid children, like you, and so we must make all the decisions! We are enforcing democracy! You are just too backwards to see that! If you continue to speak like this, there will be no Iraqi invasion for you tonight!"
Another empty threat from Thomas Friedman. He is snoring loudly now that we have finished playing Iraqi invasion. Myself, I am tired of playing Chalabi and think he looks ridiculous in the Judith Miller wig. Bangs are not a good look for Thomas Friedman.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Back from my days and nights of wine and roses
Forgive me electronic diary, I have been in some sort of a black out. I still do not know all that happened in my "Days of Wine and Roses" as the great Thomas Friedman calls them. Sometimes Thomas Friedman will tell me one thing and sometimes Nicky K will tell me something else.
I am not sure whom to trust? Or as an island song of my childhood would ask, "Who's Zooming Who?" I am spotty on nearly everything that happened in the last few days. I do remember at some point working on a column on John Bolton and getting some ideas from a brilliant web site.
I remember Thomas Friedman screaming at me, "How could you?"
I do not know what I did. I think then I was at the computer pulling up a month old piece on Bill Gates and schools from a fantastic web site. Nicky K was telling Thomas Friedman, "It is not her fault!" Thomas Friedman was screaming, "No one upstages me!"
I did not even know that Thomas Friedman was in a play. I would ask him if it was a community theater but he seems very happy about the blanks in my memory.
But he was mad that someone was doing his job only better. I wonder what role he was playing and who was Thomas Friedman's understudy? I could see him as Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire. Or possibly Toval in A Doll's House. Those titles just pop into my head but I can see the plays when they do. I think the island I grew up on, though backwater as Thomas Friedman says it was, must have had a very lively art scene.
Thomas Friedman showed me the column he says he did all by himself. It is on Bill Gates. I had started a thing on Bill Gates after searching on that groovy web site. So I do wonder if he has raided some of my work.
But when I tried to ask Thomas Friedman that, Nicky K. got very nasty with me. He was screaming "Darfur! Darfur!" And Thomas Friedman said, "Nicky, you do not think you discovered Darfur, do you?" Nicky K. looked like he was going to cry. He cries quite often so I know the look.
But it was weird because it was like Thomas Friedman was taking up for me to Nicky K. Usually Thomas Friedman is much more stern. One might even say bossy. Thomas Friedman says it is because left to my own devices, as a woman, I am not smart enough to write. Nicky K. agrees with that and added something about "lousy feminists!"
But today Thomas Friedman was defending me. And I felt like I was being played, is that the word in your language? "Played" is the word in my village's language.
They have teamed-tagged on me and tried to get me to write what they wanted. But here was Thomas Friedman telling Nicky K. that he didn't discover Darfur and that his screeching about it was "unbecoming" and made him sound like a "whiney little bitch."
Usually, it is me that Thomas Friedman calls a bitch. But he told Nicky K. he was sick of hearing "Darfur Darfur always Darfur!" Thomas Friedman said there are other things going on in the world. Then Thomas Friedman told me I could relax and write the column later.
He handed me a bottle of pills. They are new vitamins. I have not taken blue capsule vitamins before. I forgot to ask Thomas Friedman what the vitamins were.
"What Me Worry?" is what Thomas Friedman's column was called. The one he says he wrote. Thomas Friedman may have written the title because I would never use a title so stupid.
But it looks familiar. And when I said that, Nicky K. said, "She will mention Jane! She remembers!" Who is Jane? I do not know. She is someone else who upstaged the great Thomas Friedman. I also think she has somehow managed to outsell his new book because Nicky K. said something like, "No one wants your books anymore!"
It was getting very ugly but I just took my vitamins and watched. It was like I was floating and not in the room. Thomas Friedman walked over to Nicky K. and struck him. Nicky K. cried and squealed, "How dare you!" Thomas Friedman said, "You keep whining like a little bitch and I will treat you like one."
Nicky K. whimpered and groveled and Thomas Friedman forgave him. By that time, I had taken half the bottle of pills.
I have to get to work on Thomas Friedman's column. Thomas Friedman tells me I must have done in less than an hour because it must make tomorrow's paper.
Hearing that, I swallowed the rest of the pills in the bottle and said, "All gone-gone."
For some reason that was so funny to me. I laughed and laughed.
Then I licked my finger and used it to swipe any residue of vitamins left in the bottle.
Nicky K. hissed "Junkie!" But I do not think I look junkie. I am wearing the same fitted sheet I always wear around the house. For nights out, Thomas Friedman lets me wear a flat sheet.
I do not know what I am going to write. I wish I had more vitamins.
I am not sure whom to trust? Or as an island song of my childhood would ask, "Who's Zooming Who?" I am spotty on nearly everything that happened in the last few days. I do remember at some point working on a column on John Bolton and getting some ideas from a brilliant web site.
I remember Thomas Friedman screaming at me, "How could you?"
I do not know what I did. I think then I was at the computer pulling up a month old piece on Bill Gates and schools from a fantastic web site. Nicky K was telling Thomas Friedman, "It is not her fault!" Thomas Friedman was screaming, "No one upstages me!"
I did not even know that Thomas Friedman was in a play. I would ask him if it was a community theater but he seems very happy about the blanks in my memory.
But he was mad that someone was doing his job only better. I wonder what role he was playing and who was Thomas Friedman's understudy? I could see him as Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire. Or possibly Toval in A Doll's House. Those titles just pop into my head but I can see the plays when they do. I think the island I grew up on, though backwater as Thomas Friedman says it was, must have had a very lively art scene.
Thomas Friedman showed me the column he says he did all by himself. It is on Bill Gates. I had started a thing on Bill Gates after searching on that groovy web site. So I do wonder if he has raided some of my work.
But when I tried to ask Thomas Friedman that, Nicky K. got very nasty with me. He was screaming "Darfur! Darfur!" And Thomas Friedman said, "Nicky, you do not think you discovered Darfur, do you?" Nicky K. looked like he was going to cry. He cries quite often so I know the look.
But it was weird because it was like Thomas Friedman was taking up for me to Nicky K. Usually Thomas Friedman is much more stern. One might even say bossy. Thomas Friedman says it is because left to my own devices, as a woman, I am not smart enough to write. Nicky K. agrees with that and added something about "lousy feminists!"
But today Thomas Friedman was defending me. And I felt like I was being played, is that the word in your language? "Played" is the word in my village's language.
They have teamed-tagged on me and tried to get me to write what they wanted. But here was Thomas Friedman telling Nicky K. that he didn't discover Darfur and that his screeching about it was "unbecoming" and made him sound like a "whiney little bitch."
Usually, it is me that Thomas Friedman calls a bitch. But he told Nicky K. he was sick of hearing "Darfur Darfur always Darfur!" Thomas Friedman said there are other things going on in the world. Then Thomas Friedman told me I could relax and write the column later.
He handed me a bottle of pills. They are new vitamins. I have not taken blue capsule vitamins before. I forgot to ask Thomas Friedman what the vitamins were.
"What Me Worry?" is what Thomas Friedman's column was called. The one he says he wrote. Thomas Friedman may have written the title because I would never use a title so stupid.
But it looks familiar. And when I said that, Nicky K. said, "She will mention Jane! She remembers!" Who is Jane? I do not know. She is someone else who upstaged the great Thomas Friedman. I also think she has somehow managed to outsell his new book because Nicky K. said something like, "No one wants your books anymore!"
It was getting very ugly but I just took my vitamins and watched. It was like I was floating and not in the room. Thomas Friedman walked over to Nicky K. and struck him. Nicky K. cried and squealed, "How dare you!" Thomas Friedman said, "You keep whining like a little bitch and I will treat you like one."
Nicky K. whimpered and groveled and Thomas Friedman forgave him. By that time, I had taken half the bottle of pills.
I have to get to work on Thomas Friedman's column. Thomas Friedman tells me I must have done in less than an hour because it must make tomorrow's paper.
Hearing that, I swallowed the rest of the pills in the bottle and said, "All gone-gone."
For some reason that was so funny to me. I laughed and laughed.
Then I licked my finger and used it to swipe any residue of vitamins left in the bottle.
Nicky K. hissed "Junkie!" But I do not think I look junkie. I am wearing the same fitted sheet I always wear around the house. For nights out, Thomas Friedman lets me wear a flat sheet.
I do not know what I am going to write. I wish I had more vitamins.
Friday, April 22, 2005
The Beef Sizzles on the Grill
The Beef Sizzles on the Grill. That was what I titled Thomas Friedman's column that the paper ran today. I wish they had gone with my title. Thursday, Thomas Friedman was jazzercising and backed into the gas heater. Burned his big old heinie.
I was writing the column at the time and after I got done spraying his rump with Bactine, I thought, "The Beef Sizzles on the Grill," that is the title.
So Thomas Friedman greets me Thursday morning waving three bottles of vitamins in front of me. "Do you want these, Bettina?" Of course I did. I could have one bottle before the column, one bottle while I wrote the column and one bottle after.
I wish my body did not crave the vitamin C so much. But it does. Who would have thought that something you have gone your whole life without could become so important once you were introduced to it? I said that Thomas Friedman and he said, "The global econmy! Just as the people living in huts do not know of Old Navy, when it comes to their area, they must have it because the world is flat and . . ."
"Who is writing this column, Thomas Friedman?"
He stopped dicatating and asked me what I needed. I asked for a manual. Finally, he showed up with the New York Times ethics guidelines. So I read that and found out that op-ed writers for the Times could not endorse a candidate. Knowing how wiley Thomas Friedman is, I thought, "There it is! He will endorse Tony Blair and even though his column will be carried overseas, he will not get in trouble because he is the great Thomas Friedman. It is as though he is grabbing the hem of his shorty robe and mooning the world."
I figured Thomas Friedman could identify with Tony Blair for a number of reason, chief among them the fact that both are goofy looking men with strange teeth whose wives are far more interesting than they could ever be.
I actually said that to Thomas Friedman and he laughed, "Oh my little, saucy, tropical Tina Brown, everyone knows who is the Sir Harold Evans in this marriage."
I don't know about that but I do know if they made a moving picture of our lives, I know who would be played by Halle Berry and who would be played by Rick Moranis.
I also figured Thomas Friedman would identify with Tony Blair because they both lack frineds. So when I wrote that the left didn't like Blair and the right didn't either, I was really talking about Thomas Friedman.
When I wrote, "Tony Blair, by contrast, dines alone," I'm really talking about Thomas Friedman, there too. And how did I think up the "dined alone?" Easy, while I was writing, Thomas Friedman was jazzercising to Cher and kept bleating, "Sooner or later, we all sleep alone."
Thomas Friedman strongly identifies with Cher. He feels they are both "dark beauties" who've had a lot to overcome. I don't know about that comparison. For one thing, when Cher wears one of those jaw dropping outfits, she's trying to shock you. Thomas Friedman, on the other hand, truly thinks those polyester suits from Sears, circa the late-seventies, are the height of fashion.
There's also the fact that Cher overcame Sonny and Sonny didn't overcome Cher so I'm having a hard time seeing Thomas Friedman as Cher. Was that confusing? I fear I have written like him so long that I am unable to write clearly anymore?
Thomas Friedman is a on a jazzercise kick because his publicist told him he looked "unusually jowly." After Thomas Friedman took that phone call, he was so depressed. Within an hour, he was telling me and anyone who called that his publicist had called him to congratulate him on being "unusally cheeky." I can't wait to hear how he turns the publicist's "fat ass" comment around.
So Thomas Friedman has been jazzercising but he does not like that word. Thomas Friedman says he is calorie burning at an accelrated rate. To Cher blasting from the stereo with Thomas Friedman singing along. I said, "Thomas Friedman, that is jazzercising." Thomas Friedman did not stop from throwing his hands in the air as he did a dance step and told me I did not know what I was talking about.
Actually, Thomas Friedman said, "What do you know from McFries and Carl Junior burgers?"
Then it was time for his can-can kicks as he told me, "This is a high energy, calorie burning, manly excercise."
But what I do know?
I know that I am sneaking water when Thomas Friedman is not paying attention. I am exceeding the daily water allotment he has set for me. It must be the water that makes talk so quickly and mix metaphors, but on paper, Thomas Friedman pronounced it perfection.
Or as he put it, "My Eliza Dolittle just went shopping on Rodeo Drive and none of the snooty salesgirl scoffed!"
I also made a point to work myself into the column because I think I am pretty important to his life even if he usually does not mention it. So when I had him talking about how Tony Blair's wife didn't agree with him about the war, I added "I know that feeling!"
I just wanted a little attention for myself, Bettina Friedman. I am the woman behind the man. Literally when we are playing Iraqi invasion or when he is playing himself and I am playing Bill Keller.
I got a shock yesterday when a call came in yesterday. The woman asked if I was the maid and I said, "Uh no, I am the wife." She immediately apologized and gave me her name: Gail Collins.
Gail Collins. All that time I though Thomas Friedman was speaking of a Gale named Collins. A natural disaster. When I told Thomas Friedman that later, he replied, "Well have you seen her?"
Thomas Friedman thought that was very funny but I did not get it. He stopped laughing when I told him Gail Collins had called the column "perfection" and Thomas Friedman's best Friedman-ism.
Thomas Friedman made a point to tell me that he had spoken to five cab drivers of various nationalities, several people at a deli and half the U.N. and they all felt the column missed something and wasn't quite up to standard. I got so mad that he made that Eliza Dolittle comment.
I do not know why he calls me do-little. I do plenty. He is the one who is sitting on his special pillow watching TV.
If it weren't for the three bottles of vitamins he is giving me each day, I do not know how I would find the time to was the hard wood floors in his office and in our bedroom, scrub the kitchen floors and bathroom tile, squeeze his prune juice every hour on the hour when he screams, "Prune me! Daddy's feeling blocked!" or do any of the other things I do.
But the last two days, I am just raring to go. I think the vitamin C may finally be kicking in. I just wish my mouth wasn't so dry all the time.
I was writing the column at the time and after I got done spraying his rump with Bactine, I thought, "The Beef Sizzles on the Grill," that is the title.
So Thomas Friedman greets me Thursday morning waving three bottles of vitamins in front of me. "Do you want these, Bettina?" Of course I did. I could have one bottle before the column, one bottle while I wrote the column and one bottle after.
I wish my body did not crave the vitamin C so much. But it does. Who would have thought that something you have gone your whole life without could become so important once you were introduced to it? I said that Thomas Friedman and he said, "The global econmy! Just as the people living in huts do not know of Old Navy, when it comes to their area, they must have it because the world is flat and . . ."
"Who is writing this column, Thomas Friedman?"
He stopped dicatating and asked me what I needed. I asked for a manual. Finally, he showed up with the New York Times ethics guidelines. So I read that and found out that op-ed writers for the Times could not endorse a candidate. Knowing how wiley Thomas Friedman is, I thought, "There it is! He will endorse Tony Blair and even though his column will be carried overseas, he will not get in trouble because he is the great Thomas Friedman. It is as though he is grabbing the hem of his shorty robe and mooning the world."
I figured Thomas Friedman could identify with Tony Blair for a number of reason, chief among them the fact that both are goofy looking men with strange teeth whose wives are far more interesting than they could ever be.
I actually said that to Thomas Friedman and he laughed, "Oh my little, saucy, tropical Tina Brown, everyone knows who is the Sir Harold Evans in this marriage."
I don't know about that but I do know if they made a moving picture of our lives, I know who would be played by Halle Berry and who would be played by Rick Moranis.
I also figured Thomas Friedman would identify with Tony Blair because they both lack frineds. So when I wrote that the left didn't like Blair and the right didn't either, I was really talking about Thomas Friedman.
When I wrote, "Tony Blair, by contrast, dines alone," I'm really talking about Thomas Friedman, there too. And how did I think up the "dined alone?" Easy, while I was writing, Thomas Friedman was jazzercising to Cher and kept bleating, "Sooner or later, we all sleep alone."
Thomas Friedman strongly identifies with Cher. He feels they are both "dark beauties" who've had a lot to overcome. I don't know about that comparison. For one thing, when Cher wears one of those jaw dropping outfits, she's trying to shock you. Thomas Friedman, on the other hand, truly thinks those polyester suits from Sears, circa the late-seventies, are the height of fashion.
There's also the fact that Cher overcame Sonny and Sonny didn't overcome Cher so I'm having a hard time seeing Thomas Friedman as Cher. Was that confusing? I fear I have written like him so long that I am unable to write clearly anymore?
Thomas Friedman is a on a jazzercise kick because his publicist told him he looked "unusually jowly." After Thomas Friedman took that phone call, he was so depressed. Within an hour, he was telling me and anyone who called that his publicist had called him to congratulate him on being "unusally cheeky." I can't wait to hear how he turns the publicist's "fat ass" comment around.
So Thomas Friedman has been jazzercising but he does not like that word. Thomas Friedman says he is calorie burning at an accelrated rate. To Cher blasting from the stereo with Thomas Friedman singing along. I said, "Thomas Friedman, that is jazzercising." Thomas Friedman did not stop from throwing his hands in the air as he did a dance step and told me I did not know what I was talking about.
Actually, Thomas Friedman said, "What do you know from McFries and Carl Junior burgers?"
Then it was time for his can-can kicks as he told me, "This is a high energy, calorie burning, manly excercise."
But what I do know?
I know that I am sneaking water when Thomas Friedman is not paying attention. I am exceeding the daily water allotment he has set for me. It must be the water that makes talk so quickly and mix metaphors, but on paper, Thomas Friedman pronounced it perfection.
Or as he put it, "My Eliza Dolittle just went shopping on Rodeo Drive and none of the snooty salesgirl scoffed!"
I also made a point to work myself into the column because I think I am pretty important to his life even if he usually does not mention it. So when I had him talking about how Tony Blair's wife didn't agree with him about the war, I added "I know that feeling!"
I just wanted a little attention for myself, Bettina Friedman. I am the woman behind the man. Literally when we are playing Iraqi invasion or when he is playing himself and I am playing Bill Keller.
I got a shock yesterday when a call came in yesterday. The woman asked if I was the maid and I said, "Uh no, I am the wife." She immediately apologized and gave me her name: Gail Collins.
Gail Collins. All that time I though Thomas Friedman was speaking of a Gale named Collins. A natural disaster. When I told Thomas Friedman that later, he replied, "Well have you seen her?"
Thomas Friedman thought that was very funny but I did not get it. He stopped laughing when I told him Gail Collins had called the column "perfection" and Thomas Friedman's best Friedman-ism.
Thomas Friedman made a point to tell me that he had spoken to five cab drivers of various nationalities, several people at a deli and half the U.N. and they all felt the column missed something and wasn't quite up to standard. I got so mad that he made that Eliza Dolittle comment.
I do not know why he calls me do-little. I do plenty. He is the one who is sitting on his special pillow watching TV.
If it weren't for the three bottles of vitamins he is giving me each day, I do not know how I would find the time to was the hard wood floors in his office and in our bedroom, scrub the kitchen floors and bathroom tile, squeeze his prune juice every hour on the hour when he screams, "Prune me! Daddy's feeling blocked!" or do any of the other things I do.
But the last two days, I am just raring to go. I think the vitamin C may finally be kicking in. I just wish my mouth wasn't so dry all the time.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
I helped out the great Tommy Tum-Tum
Everything is so funny today. Everything!
Thomas Friedman was complaining that the omlette I made for him this morning wasn't a perfect shape but had some "run offs as though you patterened it after the Mighty Mississippi."
I just laughed, "Tommy Tum-Tum, then don't eat it." And while his mouth gaped open, I grabbed it and threw it and the paper plate at the wall.
Oh, that was so funny, it still makes me laugh.
Did I mention that my husband Thomas Friedman the Tommy Tum-Tum got me new vitamins this week? I love them. I do not know if they are Bs or Cs or Ds or maybe they are minerals like Zinc? Who cares because they make me feel so good.
And Thomas Friedman looks especially handsome with the little bursts of light flashing from his head. Strange that I never noticed them before. Thomas Friedman calls them tracers. Tracers is such a funny word, no?
I had to stop and then come back because I was laughing so hard that I think I scared the other person in the room. Thomas Friedman was in here earlier and said there was no one else in the room but that man has been in the corner all evening.
I said, "Tommy Tum-Tum, maybe you do not see him because he is not you?"
His brow got all wrinkled and I could see him attempting to figure out what I meant by that but my husband Thomas Friedman is not the only one who can do riddles.
Nor is he the only one who can write. And I proved that yesterday.
I was cleaning and taking my new vitamins and just realized how great life was. I was laughing as I scrubbed the kitchen floor. Carrying the pail with me, I went into Thomas Friedman's office and said, "Thomas Friedman, life is so wonderful."
Thomas Friedman got very mad and screamed at me, "Bettina, you are sloshing bleach all over my good tie and shirt!"
"Oh, Tommy Tom-Tom, that tie has crusted food on it and has for weeks. Here, let me clean it."
I grabbed him by the tie and then started kissing him.
"Bettina!" he hollered, "I have a column to complete!"
I reassured Tommy Tom-Tom that I could get a rise from the little Friedman and that he did not need to have one of his anxiety attacks as I pulled his shirt loose from his pants. Lifting his shirt I began kissing that fleshy, soft, gray tummy and saying, "I love Tommy Tum-Tum."
Oh was Thomas Friedman mad. He knocked me to the floor and stormed out.
I found that so funny. I even called out, "Don't forget me to tell me when you get back that the taxi driver said Thomas Friedman is a great man and a smart man and all the rest!"
Oh, life is so funny.
After I stood up, I saw that Thomas Friedman was really working on his column and not attempting to track down online nude photos of Estelle Getty as he so often does when he is at the computer.
So I read the three lines he wrote and thought, if Thomas Friedman can do it, so can Bettina!
And guess what? I did!
I wrote the whole column and then some. I just tossed out the sort of things Thomas Friedman says and used words like "Lord knows" and others.
Those columns really do write themselves.
Thomas Friedman got back several hours later and he was sulking as he sipped on his smoothee.
He did not know that I had already sent the column over.
"Bettina," Thomas Friedman began, "I am a great man and I am an important man. I am a fair man and I am a generous man. I am --"
The phone rang and I laughed, "Thank God!"
Oh it still cracks me up to picture the angry look Thomas Friedman shot me as he marched over to the phone.
"Friedman, Thomas Friedman," Thomas Friedman said.
It was Bill Keller and he was going crazy over Thomas Friedman's latest column. Thomas Friedman was confused and put Bill Keller on speaker phone.
"It is the finest piece of writing that the paper has ever run!" Bill Keller squealed like a little girl seeing a kitten.
"I see," Thomas Friedman said slowly while I sat down on his desk and pretended to type so he would get the idea that I had written it and sent it in.
"You really think it is good?" Thomas Friedman asked as he nodded to me.
"Oh, it is vintage Friedman! It is so you and so true and I have dotted your hearts with little hearts!"
"Put it back in your BVDS, Keller," Thomas Friedman barked, "we ain't going out like that."
Thomas Friedman chortled so hard. He loves it when he thinks he talks "street." Watching Thomas Friedman throw back his head and chortle, I was reminded of those plastic birds that bend and go up, bend and go up, over a drink. I laughed and laughed.
When I stopped laughing, I heard Keller saying something about how he liked Thomas Friedman's joke but that they did have to cut it.
"I'm sure it was true about you, but we don't want to upset our great leader, do we?"
"No," Thomas Friedman said firmly. "I am glad you enjoyed my joke."
With that Thomas Friedman hung up the phone and asked me if I realized what this meant?
I laughed and laughed thinking it meant that all you needed was a bottle of pills and a few catch phrases to be an op-ed writer for the paper.
Thomas Friedman said no, that wasn't it. It means he can get started on another book right now if I can write his column for him. He went on and on with all these ideas until I told him, "Thomas Friedman, you are bringing me down."
Thomas Friedman did not like that. He did not like that at all. He grabbed his smoothie and stormed out of the room.
I hear him snoring from the bedroom. I guess there is no Iraqi Invasion games tonight.
I will share the little poem that I closed Thomas Friedman's column with because it still tickles me and I wish the paper had printed it today.
Here it is. I called it "Ode to My Penis and the Bully Boy."
Red faced with anger over lack of girth
I still like the little guy
He brings me much mirth.
I do not know why they cut it. If I do another column, I will try to work it back it in. Now I must go look for more vitamins. I cannot believe how quickly I go through those bottles.
Thomas Friedman was complaining that the omlette I made for him this morning wasn't a perfect shape but had some "run offs as though you patterened it after the Mighty Mississippi."
I just laughed, "Tommy Tum-Tum, then don't eat it." And while his mouth gaped open, I grabbed it and threw it and the paper plate at the wall.
Oh, that was so funny, it still makes me laugh.
Did I mention that my husband Thomas Friedman the Tommy Tum-Tum got me new vitamins this week? I love them. I do not know if they are Bs or Cs or Ds or maybe they are minerals like Zinc? Who cares because they make me feel so good.
And Thomas Friedman looks especially handsome with the little bursts of light flashing from his head. Strange that I never noticed them before. Thomas Friedman calls them tracers. Tracers is such a funny word, no?
I had to stop and then come back because I was laughing so hard that I think I scared the other person in the room. Thomas Friedman was in here earlier and said there was no one else in the room but that man has been in the corner all evening.
I said, "Tommy Tum-Tum, maybe you do not see him because he is not you?"
His brow got all wrinkled and I could see him attempting to figure out what I meant by that but my husband Thomas Friedman is not the only one who can do riddles.
Nor is he the only one who can write. And I proved that yesterday.
I was cleaning and taking my new vitamins and just realized how great life was. I was laughing as I scrubbed the kitchen floor. Carrying the pail with me, I went into Thomas Friedman's office and said, "Thomas Friedman, life is so wonderful."
Thomas Friedman got very mad and screamed at me, "Bettina, you are sloshing bleach all over my good tie and shirt!"
"Oh, Tommy Tom-Tom, that tie has crusted food on it and has for weeks. Here, let me clean it."
I grabbed him by the tie and then started kissing him.
"Bettina!" he hollered, "I have a column to complete!"
I reassured Tommy Tom-Tom that I could get a rise from the little Friedman and that he did not need to have one of his anxiety attacks as I pulled his shirt loose from his pants. Lifting his shirt I began kissing that fleshy, soft, gray tummy and saying, "I love Tommy Tum-Tum."
Oh was Thomas Friedman mad. He knocked me to the floor and stormed out.
I found that so funny. I even called out, "Don't forget me to tell me when you get back that the taxi driver said Thomas Friedman is a great man and a smart man and all the rest!"
Oh, life is so funny.
After I stood up, I saw that Thomas Friedman was really working on his column and not attempting to track down online nude photos of Estelle Getty as he so often does when he is at the computer.
So I read the three lines he wrote and thought, if Thomas Friedman can do it, so can Bettina!
And guess what? I did!
I wrote the whole column and then some. I just tossed out the sort of things Thomas Friedman says and used words like "Lord knows" and others.
Those columns really do write themselves.
Thomas Friedman got back several hours later and he was sulking as he sipped on his smoothee.
He did not know that I had already sent the column over.
"Bettina," Thomas Friedman began, "I am a great man and I am an important man. I am a fair man and I am a generous man. I am --"
The phone rang and I laughed, "Thank God!"
Oh it still cracks me up to picture the angry look Thomas Friedman shot me as he marched over to the phone.
"Friedman, Thomas Friedman," Thomas Friedman said.
It was Bill Keller and he was going crazy over Thomas Friedman's latest column. Thomas Friedman was confused and put Bill Keller on speaker phone.
"It is the finest piece of writing that the paper has ever run!" Bill Keller squealed like a little girl seeing a kitten.
"I see," Thomas Friedman said slowly while I sat down on his desk and pretended to type so he would get the idea that I had written it and sent it in.
"You really think it is good?" Thomas Friedman asked as he nodded to me.
"Oh, it is vintage Friedman! It is so you and so true and I have dotted your hearts with little hearts!"
"Put it back in your BVDS, Keller," Thomas Friedman barked, "we ain't going out like that."
Thomas Friedman chortled so hard. He loves it when he thinks he talks "street." Watching Thomas Friedman throw back his head and chortle, I was reminded of those plastic birds that bend and go up, bend and go up, over a drink. I laughed and laughed.
When I stopped laughing, I heard Keller saying something about how he liked Thomas Friedman's joke but that they did have to cut it.
"I'm sure it was true about you, but we don't want to upset our great leader, do we?"
"No," Thomas Friedman said firmly. "I am glad you enjoyed my joke."
With that Thomas Friedman hung up the phone and asked me if I realized what this meant?
I laughed and laughed thinking it meant that all you needed was a bottle of pills and a few catch phrases to be an op-ed writer for the paper.
Thomas Friedman said no, that wasn't it. It means he can get started on another book right now if I can write his column for him. He went on and on with all these ideas until I told him, "Thomas Friedman, you are bringing me down."
Thomas Friedman did not like that. He did not like that at all. He grabbed his smoothie and stormed out of the room.
I hear him snoring from the bedroom. I guess there is no Iraqi Invasion games tonight.
I will share the little poem that I closed Thomas Friedman's column with because it still tickles me and I wish the paper had printed it today.
Here it is. I called it "Ode to My Penis and the Bully Boy."
Red faced with anger over lack of girth
I still like the little guy
He brings me much mirth.
I do not know why they cut it. If I do another column, I will try to work it back it in. Now I must go look for more vitamins. I cannot believe how quickly I go through those bottles.
Friday, April 15, 2005
It must be the scurvy talking
"Darn you, Thomas Friedman, quit being such a gloomy Gus."
That is what I said to my husband Thomas Friedman this evening.
I know all of the great things Thomas Friedman has done. The great things I have not memorized word for word, I have on the laminated bookmark Thomas Friedman made for me for quick reference: 50 Reasons Why Thomas Friedman Is the Greatests of the Greats.
But this evening, Thomas Friedman just got on my last nerve.
Thomas Friedman can say, "Oh Bettina, my moon worshiping third world child, you are feeling that way because of your monthly visitor."
Thomas Friedman can say that over and over if he wants. Thomas Friedman must have said that twenty times this evening and to be honest, it creeps me out. I have a period, not a monthly visitor.
I said, "Thomas Friedman, why must you speak in riddles? You make it sound like CPS is come to check on me. My monthly visitor? It is a period. Say what it is."
This just prompted Thomas Friedman to say I had PMS from my monthly visitor and that I got like this everytime it was time for my monthly visitor. I am not even on my period. I had my period when Thomas Friedman spent two days lying on the "vinatage linoleum" in the kitchen, curled up in a fetal position, sucking on his thumb and soiling himself. A period of time he now refers to as "primal scream therapy." There was nothing therapuetic about cleaning his mess off the kitchen floor, "vintage lineleum" or not.
But when Thomas Friedman gets an idea in his his head, he is right and everything just proves he is right even when, to anyone else, it proves he is wrong.
From the moment the paper was delivered this morning until he finally went to sleep tonight, Thomas Friedman has been moping around all day.
Nothing I say helps and is just one more reason why the world is against Thomas Friedman.
Finally, at six this evening, after he has not moved from that chair of his all day, I say, "Thomas Friedman, you are getting on my nerves."
Thomas Friedman's column schedule has been moved around. Now Thomas Friedman's column appears on Wednesdays and Fridays, I think. I should know because this is the only thing Thomas Friedman talks about but I really had to tune him out most of the day because I was not feeling very generous to him when every other minute he was griping about this.
"Paul Krugman! And two blowhards waxing on about taxes! No one wants to read that boring, old Europe shit in our post-9-11 world."
"Well," I say back to him, "that just means that people will read Thomas Friedman today because the other stuff is so boring. They will look at the page and be so happy that Thomas Friedman is on it saving them from the boring stuff."
No, Thomas Friedman, says they won't look at him at all.
Today, his column runs on the far right of the page and it is the fault of that "damn Gale Collins."
I am guessing he is so busy moping that he thinks this mighty wind blew his column over there.
Thomas Friedman is becoming so focused on this Gale Collins that he can think of nothing else.
At times, I start wishing this great gale would develop into something. Not a tsunami or a hurricane or anything that will hurt people, but something that would justify Thomas Friedman's constant obsession with it.
But his column is on the far right and "stupid Bettina even you should know" that readers eyes drift automatically to the left "not unlike this country unless we use the metaphorical ruler to rap them on their metaphorical wrists." So since readers eyes go to the left automatically, they will not notice Thomas Friedman at all.
He has been a gloomy Gus all day. And I made the mistake of saying, "Thomas Friedman, maybe you are just a little under the weather. Here, take some of my vitamins and see if that helps you."
Thomas Friedman has taken the entire bottle.
And my body must now crave the vitamin C it has so long been deprived of because all day long I have been feeling my skin is itching or crawling. Thomas Friedman suggested that I might have scurvy. And instead of thinking, "Oh Thomas Friedman must be right because he is always right," I ended up thinking, "For all the money he makes, why he insists on wearing those awful lime-green suits that look like he bought them off the rack at Sears, I will never know."
Or, "That mustache is not charming or cute and if he is going to try to pull it off, he should at least learn the importance of trimming it."
Or how about this? "Thomas Friedman uses a lot of words but in the end he really does not say anything and if his column is on the far right today, maybe that is because he belongs on the far right."
It must be the scurvy talking because everything he has done today irritates me.
At one point today when I again doubted the importance of where his column is placed, Thomas Friedman said to me, "Bettina, you are the only one who feels that way. Why, this morning, when I went to a Korean supermarket, the odd little creature behind the counter said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' And when I hailed a cab this afternoon outside Manny's, the Pakistani cab driver said to me, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' Later, when I was standing in Central Park, a Guatamalan woman came up to me and said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' So that, as they say, takes care of that."
I was just not in the mood for it.
I said, "Who is they! The they that say! And what is this nonsense about people talking to you! All the people you quote say exactly what you want to hear and speak exactly like you! And Thomas Friedman, you have not left that chair all day so do not tell me you have run into them because, other than a few dust bunnies under the chair, you could not have spoken to anyone today!"
Thomas Friedman's eye bulged as he whispered "Holy shit," put my bottle of vitamins up to his lips and took the last of them.
I was so mad because he had bogarted that bottle all day that I added, "And another thing! I do not think that I wore 300 count sheets in my village and if I did, I certainly did not wear ones like this with stains all over them. I think you are too cheap to let me spend money on dresses and so instead you continue to push these used, dirty sheets, purchased at Goodwill, off on me as my native dress!"
At least that shut Thomas Friedman up. He did not say another word to me all evening until he went to bed and he would look at me funny everytime I entered the room.
I am so tired from scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees and from squeezing his prunes for his fresh squeed prunes all day, and from doing his laundry in the kitchen sink because washing machines are "a sign of lazy character." I am tired from opening soy sauce packets and pouring them into a bottle.
I am tired of hearing, "Bettina, soda crackers now!" and having to stop whatever chore I am completing to run to the living room with a plate of his soda crackers and canned cheese which he says "does not taste right" and must have gone bad inside the can.
That does not stop him from eating it, oh no. Or asking for more.
And my scurvy must have given me a high fever because I keep having fantasies of living in a small apartment with an actual dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner and never having had to push one of those sweepers across the carpet. I am having fantasies of having my nails done and owning a Toyota. Surely we did not have cars in my mud hut village?
It must be the scurvy talking. Thomas Friedman's only words to me before going to bed tonight were, "First thing tomorrow, you are going by the pharmacy to pick up more pills."
I know I should be thinking, "The great Thomas Friedman is so concerned about my well being that it is the last thought on his brain before turning in. Not that Gale Collins that he is obsessed over, but me." Instead I just think, "I have scurvy and his lazy ass is sending me out on one more errand."
It must be the scurvy talking.
That is what I said to my husband Thomas Friedman this evening.
I know all of the great things Thomas Friedman has done. The great things I have not memorized word for word, I have on the laminated bookmark Thomas Friedman made for me for quick reference: 50 Reasons Why Thomas Friedman Is the Greatests of the Greats.
But this evening, Thomas Friedman just got on my last nerve.
Thomas Friedman can say, "Oh Bettina, my moon worshiping third world child, you are feeling that way because of your monthly visitor."
Thomas Friedman can say that over and over if he wants. Thomas Friedman must have said that twenty times this evening and to be honest, it creeps me out. I have a period, not a monthly visitor.
I said, "Thomas Friedman, why must you speak in riddles? You make it sound like CPS is come to check on me. My monthly visitor? It is a period. Say what it is."
This just prompted Thomas Friedman to say I had PMS from my monthly visitor and that I got like this everytime it was time for my monthly visitor. I am not even on my period. I had my period when Thomas Friedman spent two days lying on the "vinatage linoleum" in the kitchen, curled up in a fetal position, sucking on his thumb and soiling himself. A period of time he now refers to as "primal scream therapy." There was nothing therapuetic about cleaning his mess off the kitchen floor, "vintage lineleum" or not.
But when Thomas Friedman gets an idea in his his head, he is right and everything just proves he is right even when, to anyone else, it proves he is wrong.
From the moment the paper was delivered this morning until he finally went to sleep tonight, Thomas Friedman has been moping around all day.
Nothing I say helps and is just one more reason why the world is against Thomas Friedman.
Finally, at six this evening, after he has not moved from that chair of his all day, I say, "Thomas Friedman, you are getting on my nerves."
Thomas Friedman's column schedule has been moved around. Now Thomas Friedman's column appears on Wednesdays and Fridays, I think. I should know because this is the only thing Thomas Friedman talks about but I really had to tune him out most of the day because I was not feeling very generous to him when every other minute he was griping about this.
"Paul Krugman! And two blowhards waxing on about taxes! No one wants to read that boring, old Europe shit in our post-9-11 world."
"Well," I say back to him, "that just means that people will read Thomas Friedman today because the other stuff is so boring. They will look at the page and be so happy that Thomas Friedman is on it saving them from the boring stuff."
No, Thomas Friedman, says they won't look at him at all.
Today, his column runs on the far right of the page and it is the fault of that "damn Gale Collins."
I am guessing he is so busy moping that he thinks this mighty wind blew his column over there.
Thomas Friedman is becoming so focused on this Gale Collins that he can think of nothing else.
At times, I start wishing this great gale would develop into something. Not a tsunami or a hurricane or anything that will hurt people, but something that would justify Thomas Friedman's constant obsession with it.
But his column is on the far right and "stupid Bettina even you should know" that readers eyes drift automatically to the left "not unlike this country unless we use the metaphorical ruler to rap them on their metaphorical wrists." So since readers eyes go to the left automatically, they will not notice Thomas Friedman at all.
He has been a gloomy Gus all day. And I made the mistake of saying, "Thomas Friedman, maybe you are just a little under the weather. Here, take some of my vitamins and see if that helps you."
Thomas Friedman has taken the entire bottle.
And my body must now crave the vitamin C it has so long been deprived of because all day long I have been feeling my skin is itching or crawling. Thomas Friedman suggested that I might have scurvy. And instead of thinking, "Oh Thomas Friedman must be right because he is always right," I ended up thinking, "For all the money he makes, why he insists on wearing those awful lime-green suits that look like he bought them off the rack at Sears, I will never know."
Or, "That mustache is not charming or cute and if he is going to try to pull it off, he should at least learn the importance of trimming it."
Or how about this? "Thomas Friedman uses a lot of words but in the end he really does not say anything and if his column is on the far right today, maybe that is because he belongs on the far right."
It must be the scurvy talking because everything he has done today irritates me.
At one point today when I again doubted the importance of where his column is placed, Thomas Friedman said to me, "Bettina, you are the only one who feels that way. Why, this morning, when I went to a Korean supermarket, the odd little creature behind the counter said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' And when I hailed a cab this afternoon outside Manny's, the Pakistani cab driver said to me, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' Later, when I was standing in Central Park, a Guatamalan woman came up to me and said, 'Thomas Friedman, you are a great man and you do not deserve to have your column run on the far right of the paper.' So that, as they say, takes care of that."
I was just not in the mood for it.
I said, "Who is they! The they that say! And what is this nonsense about people talking to you! All the people you quote say exactly what you want to hear and speak exactly like you! And Thomas Friedman, you have not left that chair all day so do not tell me you have run into them because, other than a few dust bunnies under the chair, you could not have spoken to anyone today!"
Thomas Friedman's eye bulged as he whispered "Holy shit," put my bottle of vitamins up to his lips and took the last of them.
I was so mad because he had bogarted that bottle all day that I added, "And another thing! I do not think that I wore 300 count sheets in my village and if I did, I certainly did not wear ones like this with stains all over them. I think you are too cheap to let me spend money on dresses and so instead you continue to push these used, dirty sheets, purchased at Goodwill, off on me as my native dress!"
At least that shut Thomas Friedman up. He did not say another word to me all evening until he went to bed and he would look at me funny everytime I entered the room.
I am so tired from scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees and from squeezing his prunes for his fresh squeed prunes all day, and from doing his laundry in the kitchen sink because washing machines are "a sign of lazy character." I am tired from opening soy sauce packets and pouring them into a bottle.
I am tired of hearing, "Bettina, soda crackers now!" and having to stop whatever chore I am completing to run to the living room with a plate of his soda crackers and canned cheese which he says "does not taste right" and must have gone bad inside the can.
That does not stop him from eating it, oh no. Or asking for more.
And my scurvy must have given me a high fever because I keep having fantasies of living in a small apartment with an actual dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner and never having had to push one of those sweepers across the carpet. I am having fantasies of having my nails done and owning a Toyota. Surely we did not have cars in my mud hut village?
It must be the scurvy talking. Thomas Friedman's only words to me before going to bed tonight were, "First thing tomorrow, you are going by the pharmacy to pick up more pills."
I know I should be thinking, "The great Thomas Friedman is so concerned about my well being that it is the last thought on his brain before turning in. Not that Gale Collins that he is obsessed over, but me." Instead I just think, "I have scurvy and his lazy ass is sending me out on one more errand."
It must be the scurvy talking.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
No Calm Before the Storm, It Has Moved In
It was so ugly today that my ears are still ringing. Not just because Thomas Friedman boxed me on them as he said, "Bettina, don't be the global village idiot! We are having a discussion!"
It was not a discussion.
Nicky Kristof came over to try to reason with Thomas Friedman. At first, I was so mad. It had taken me all day Monday and most of Tuesday just to cajole Thomas Friedman off the kitchen floor. For hour upon hour, he remained there curled up in the fetal position, sucking his thumb.
I got him up finally and I bathed him and shaved him. I hauled his butt over to the computer and even then I could not go and clean up the mess he'd made of the kitchen. Oh no, because Thomas Friedman was still saying, "I am a fraud! I am a liar! There is no bigger fake in the world than me! I am the all time liar in the universe!"
I was so tired and, honestly, a little mad, that I shot back, "Quit bragging!"
That snapped him out of it. After he threw the mouse pad at him and after he got over the fact that it did not fly through the air, he began to type.
He worked forever on the title of the column saying, "I'll teach that Gale Collins a thing or two!" Finally he settled on "The Calm Before The Storm?" Which he said was he was of showing Gale Collins just who was boss. Thomas Friedman does not like bad weather, I guess.
He said he was throwing down the gigabyte gauntlet and then chuckled so I laughed today. Stretching, Thomas Friedman finally smiled and said, "I still got it."
At last I could clean the kitchen and it was a disaster. Thomas Friedman might not have moved for almost two days but rest assured his bowels did. With one hand, I cleaned, using the other hand to cover my mouth and nose. Even so I kept gagging.
But he hammered out a column and all was good. He even was in the mood for Iraqi invasion. He played Donald Rumsfeld and I was US troops because Thomas Friedman said he wanted to screw me over the way Rumsfeld had the troops.
At 1 point, he yelled, "No condoms! You hear that, Bettina! No body armor for you! Stuff happens!"
There was a time, early on, when the thought of birthing the great Thomas Friedman's child would have pleased me immensely. But now that I realize how much is involved in the upkeep and care of Thomas Friedman, if we had a child, I think I would be charged with child neglect.
Thomas Friedman is highly demanding.
So I was glad that today went much more smoothly.
But then, this afternoon, Nicky showed up.
"Thomas," he said, "I just read your column --"
"You and the rest of the world," said Thomas Friedman puffing on his bubble pipe.
"And I have to know, are we supporting the war again?"
"We always did," said Thomas Friedman.
"I can not bend this way and that," whimpered Nicky.
"Of course you can, you do it every day!"
At that point, it got ugly.
Nicky started arguing in a very high pitch and saying things like Thomas Friedman was dead and that the paper knew it and it was over and that is why no more Sundays for Thomas Friedman.
I am thinking Nicky was drunk or high or something because Thomas Friedman is not dead.
A little gassy most evenings, I think it is the canned cheese, but he is not dead.
Thomas Friedman began shouting Nicky down.
"Okay, okay," Nicky said finally, "I will be for the war again."
"Good," laughed Thomas Friedman, "We all missed your pom-poms and splits!"
Oh was Nicky mad. He started yelling how dare Thomas Friedman question his manhood and Thomas Friedman replied that he was not questioning it because "how do you question what is not there?"
Nicky was crying and Thomas Friedman looked so happy.
Then the shouting started back up.
"Please," I pleaded, "you two are friends."
That is when Thomas Friedman boxed my ears and told me that Thomas Friedman was Nicky's mentor, not his friend.
Nicky accused Thomas Friedman of being a racist and Thomas Friedman said, "Play the race card, Nicky, it's all you have left."
"You have nothing left!" screamed Nicky. "You are out of date."
"If I am so out of date, how come three cabbies today told me that they lived for each word I wrote. Why is it that the sanitation worker I met todays told me, 'Thomas Friedman, I live for every word you write.' While at a Chinese buffet, the owner came up and said to me, "Thomas Friedman, I live for every word you write."
I do not know what he is talking about. Having finally gotten all the stains out of his shorty robe last night, Thomas Friedman has been in it ever since and he has not left the apartment. Maybe he meant last week?
He told Nicky that he called his column "The Calm Before the Storm?" because he was about to go to town on Nicky and everyone else who had stabbed him in the back.
Nicky left with tears streaming.
I said, "Thomas Friedman, that seemed so cruel."
Thomas Friedman said, "Bettina, my little uninformed idiot, I fucked him over. That is what we do at the paper. Haven't you been paying attention to all of the rumors of cheating?"
I did not grasp the riddle. I was just glad that the yelling had stopped. My ears are still ringing.
I do not know how I will find the energy to play "Back Door" which is the game we play when Thomas Friedman plays Thomas Friedman and I play Nicky. I have been taking my vitamins two at a time all evening on the half-hour. I still do not think I am up for that.
It was not a discussion.
Nicky Kristof came over to try to reason with Thomas Friedman. At first, I was so mad. It had taken me all day Monday and most of Tuesday just to cajole Thomas Friedman off the kitchen floor. For hour upon hour, he remained there curled up in the fetal position, sucking his thumb.
I got him up finally and I bathed him and shaved him. I hauled his butt over to the computer and even then I could not go and clean up the mess he'd made of the kitchen. Oh no, because Thomas Friedman was still saying, "I am a fraud! I am a liar! There is no bigger fake in the world than me! I am the all time liar in the universe!"
I was so tired and, honestly, a little mad, that I shot back, "Quit bragging!"
That snapped him out of it. After he threw the mouse pad at him and after he got over the fact that it did not fly through the air, he began to type.
He worked forever on the title of the column saying, "I'll teach that Gale Collins a thing or two!" Finally he settled on "The Calm Before The Storm?" Which he said was he was of showing Gale Collins just who was boss. Thomas Friedman does not like bad weather, I guess.
He said he was throwing down the gigabyte gauntlet and then chuckled so I laughed today. Stretching, Thomas Friedman finally smiled and said, "I still got it."
At last I could clean the kitchen and it was a disaster. Thomas Friedman might not have moved for almost two days but rest assured his bowels did. With one hand, I cleaned, using the other hand to cover my mouth and nose. Even so I kept gagging.
But he hammered out a column and all was good. He even was in the mood for Iraqi invasion. He played Donald Rumsfeld and I was US troops because Thomas Friedman said he wanted to screw me over the way Rumsfeld had the troops.
At 1 point, he yelled, "No condoms! You hear that, Bettina! No body armor for you! Stuff happens!"
There was a time, early on, when the thought of birthing the great Thomas Friedman's child would have pleased me immensely. But now that I realize how much is involved in the upkeep and care of Thomas Friedman, if we had a child, I think I would be charged with child neglect.
Thomas Friedman is highly demanding.
So I was glad that today went much more smoothly.
But then, this afternoon, Nicky showed up.
"Thomas," he said, "I just read your column --"
"You and the rest of the world," said Thomas Friedman puffing on his bubble pipe.
"And I have to know, are we supporting the war again?"
"We always did," said Thomas Friedman.
"I can not bend this way and that," whimpered Nicky.
"Of course you can, you do it every day!"
At that point, it got ugly.
Nicky started arguing in a very high pitch and saying things like Thomas Friedman was dead and that the paper knew it and it was over and that is why no more Sundays for Thomas Friedman.
I am thinking Nicky was drunk or high or something because Thomas Friedman is not dead.
A little gassy most evenings, I think it is the canned cheese, but he is not dead.
Thomas Friedman began shouting Nicky down.
"Okay, okay," Nicky said finally, "I will be for the war again."
"Good," laughed Thomas Friedman, "We all missed your pom-poms and splits!"
Oh was Nicky mad. He started yelling how dare Thomas Friedman question his manhood and Thomas Friedman replied that he was not questioning it because "how do you question what is not there?"
Nicky was crying and Thomas Friedman looked so happy.
Then the shouting started back up.
"Please," I pleaded, "you two are friends."
That is when Thomas Friedman boxed my ears and told me that Thomas Friedman was Nicky's mentor, not his friend.
Nicky accused Thomas Friedman of being a racist and Thomas Friedman said, "Play the race card, Nicky, it's all you have left."
"You have nothing left!" screamed Nicky. "You are out of date."
"If I am so out of date, how come three cabbies today told me that they lived for each word I wrote. Why is it that the sanitation worker I met todays told me, 'Thomas Friedman, I live for every word you write.' While at a Chinese buffet, the owner came up and said to me, "Thomas Friedman, I live for every word you write."
I do not know what he is talking about. Having finally gotten all the stains out of his shorty robe last night, Thomas Friedman has been in it ever since and he has not left the apartment. Maybe he meant last week?
He told Nicky that he called his column "The Calm Before the Storm?" because he was about to go to town on Nicky and everyone else who had stabbed him in the back.
Nicky left with tears streaming.
I said, "Thomas Friedman, that seemed so cruel."
Thomas Friedman said, "Bettina, my little uninformed idiot, I fucked him over. That is what we do at the paper. Haven't you been paying attention to all of the rumors of cheating?"
I did not grasp the riddle. I was just glad that the yelling had stopped. My ears are still ringing.
I do not know how I will find the energy to play "Back Door" which is the game we play when Thomas Friedman plays Thomas Friedman and I play Nicky. I have been taking my vitamins two at a time all evening on the half-hour. I still do not think I am up for that.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
My husband Thomas Friedman says "The world is going to hell in an Enstrom's Gift Basket"
My husband Thomas Friedman says, "The world is going to hell in an Enstrom's gift basket!"
He has been furuious all morning and yelling and screaming things like, "The New York Times is the Hillary Duff of the global village attempting to pass itself off as the Meryl Streep!" I have never seen Thomas Friedman so mad.
Not even yesterday morning when I slept right through the alarm and was an hour late waking. I moved quickly to change his adult diaper from last name's game where he played William Safire and I played Peggy Noonan. But it was too late. Thomas Friedman had diaper rash, or adult diaper rash.
Thomas Friedman was so mad. He yelled and yelled no matter how I apologized. I said, "Maybe I did not take enough vitamins yesterday? I will go take some now. I will take the whole bottle." Thomas Friedman grabbed my arm and said, "Don't you Judy Garland out on me! I do not want to waste money on Betty Ford!"
I had no idea what that meant. I believe Judy Garland was the little girl in a movie dreaming about somewhere over a rainbow and that Betty Ford was married to a president. Rainbows and White Houses? Sometimes my husband Thomas Friedman speaks in riddles.
I was tired all day yesterday and kept trying to take my vitamins but Thomas Friedman kept saying I had a holler monkey on my back. That must be some new game he is playing, like Iraqi invasion, because everytime I checked, there was no monkey on my back.
But if I thought the day of adult diaper rash was bad, I had seen nothing. FYI, his heinie, though overly hairy, is fine now.
But Thomas Friedman is not fine now. He is so angry and so upset. Thomas Friedman is even swallowing my vitamins by the handful. I said, "Thomas Friedman, I thought you grew up with plenty of citrus. Why do you need so many vitamins?"
Thomas Friedman glared at me with squinted eyes and barked, "Kiss my ass!"
I dropped to my knees and started kissing, thinking, "Oh, he wants me to play Bill Keller again."
And I was saying, "Thomas Friedman, I am nothing but a glorified copy boy! A proof reader! I am not fit to print your columns! I am not fit to breathe air in a world whose most amazing natural resource is the great Thomas Friedman!"
I thought I was saying the things Thomas Friedman had taught me correctly but he pushed me away and stormed back and forth across the room with his flip flops flipping and flopping and his shorty robe riding up in the back.
He took my bottle of vitamins to his lips and emptied what was left into his mouth then threw it on the floor just like he does his socks, underwear, pants, shirt, tie and Biore Deep Cleansing Pore Strips. My husband Thomas Friedman can be sloppy but he always reminds me that it is part of his charm, "my quirky, endearing trait, my trademark, like the half-smile on the Mona Lisa or the beauty mark on Cindy Crawford." If you say so, Thomas Friedman.
In the kitchen he was hollering for me to get in there. I found him with a plate of his soda crackers and holding the can of cheese.
"Bettina, watch this," Thomas Friedman said to me as he took the can to a soda cracker and waited. No cheese came out.
He threw the can and it hit me in the forehead.
"You have been eating my snacks! Were it not for me, you would still be slaving away in Trenton and this is the thanks I get? You sneak through my snacks like Judy Miller stealing K-rations from sleeping soldiers!"
Trenton? Is that the name of the village I come from? I was thinking how musical it sounded. Tren-ton. And I was wondering if all my people lived in mud huts like Thomas Friedman has told me? I was trying to picture Dumb Asswipe, the man who must have been chief because Thomas Friedman is always saying, "Who taught you to do it that way? Dumb Asswipe!" or
"This meal is not fit to eat! Dumb Asswipe!"
But then soda crackers started flying in my face, pulling me from my reflections.
"No, Thomas Friedman, I did not eat your canned cheese," I insisted. "I know it is delicacy only fit for a great man like Thomas Friedman. I know that you say it is so costly that you can afford but one can a week. I know you work hard and deserve all the finer things in life and that I am grateful to merely sit beside you and reflect in your good taste."
"Stop repeating everything I have taught you!" Thomas Friedman yelled slamming the plate against a counter.
I was grateful I did not have another mess to clean. Nicky had once mocked the great Thomas Friedman for using styrofoam plates, bowls and cups. He had used words like PCBs which assume are some words from his native tongue. Thomas Friedman had snarled, "You are the McToxic here, Kristof!"
I felt so bad for Nicky because John Tierney had been over that night. He calls my husband Thomas Friedman "Big Tom" and Thomas Friedman calls him "Little John." And Little John had laughed and laughed at Nicky and spat out "Recycling is garbage!"
This had caused Thomas Friedman and Little John to start slamming their hands against the table as their laughter increased. Good sport Nicky (Thomas Friedman says Nicky is nothing if not a good sport) joined in the laughter saying that if two out of three believed something he was always happy to make it three out of three. Then he entertained us all with a story of a deadly tribe that was destroying the world, Nicky called them feminists, and all was fine.
My mind raced to that as I thought of how if Thomas Friedman had been using a glass plate, it would have shattered and I would have had to pick up the pieces. And what if a shard had been embedded into our "vintage linoleum?" I shudder at the thought because Thomas Friedman is made of greatness not money, as Thomas Friedman always says.
Thomas Friedman was on the floor pounding his fists against the "vintage linoleum" and sobbing.
He was screaming about this and that and I did not understand it all. Something was causing tremendous damage and wrecking the world, some sort of wind that I am guessing might turn into a hurricane. Thomas Friedman kept talking about this and damning it. "Damn Gale Collins!"
That is how much my husband Thomas Friedman cares for the world. A gale had reduced him to tears. He is such a caring man, I reminded myself as I rubbed the bump on my forehead from where the can of cheese hit.
The gale had blown the entire world into disarray. Thomas Friedman was fearful for everyone because although he is the most important and perfect person in the world, he cares for everyone. He brought up Little John and was saying things like, "Little John is not ready for this! This is the big leagues!" And I am guessing that Nicky was taking one of his brief stands because Thomas Friedman was screaming that Nicky had stabbed him in the back and was not up to Sundays.
"There, there, Thomas Friedman," I said pulling his shorty robe down to cover his ample rear.
"You always say 'Nicky caves quicker than Carter.' He will come around. He is your friend."
Thomas Friedman howled, 'Kristof is not my friend!"
Somehow this mighty gale was blowing through and tossing everything into chaos. This gale would somehow even effect his book sales. "The whole world is against me! Damn that Gale Collins!" I am guessing that in gales, like in hurricanes, people do not buy many new books.
I know Thomas Friedman was already angry that an actress had gotten all the attention last week and that his friend Blinky had not booked him on Face the Nation this morning. Is the whole world against Thomas Friedman?"
"Not me," I told him.
"Bettina, my backwater democracy grown ever stagnant," Thomas Friedman said wiping his eyes, "You do not understand! They have pulled me from Sundays! The biggest circulation day! They have moved me to Fridays! The only thing worse would be to be Mo Do being moved to Saturday when no one looks!"
Mo Do? I do not know. But I told him, "Come now, Thomas Friedman, everyone looks at you. You are the great Thomas Friedman. Why just this morning, when you went out into the hall to grab the morning paper in your shorty robe, did not the elderly woman next door shriek and scream? Because you are the great Thomas Friedman. That is why."
But Thomas Friedman did not answer me. He was curled in the fetal position and sucking his thumb. He has been that way for the last three hours and I am really starting to worry.
Thomas Friedman expects me to have the kitchen floor scrubbed each day before dinner and it is already half-past five.
He has been furuious all morning and yelling and screaming things like, "The New York Times is the Hillary Duff of the global village attempting to pass itself off as the Meryl Streep!" I have never seen Thomas Friedman so mad.
Not even yesterday morning when I slept right through the alarm and was an hour late waking. I moved quickly to change his adult diaper from last name's game where he played William Safire and I played Peggy Noonan. But it was too late. Thomas Friedman had diaper rash, or adult diaper rash.
Thomas Friedman was so mad. He yelled and yelled no matter how I apologized. I said, "Maybe I did not take enough vitamins yesterday? I will go take some now. I will take the whole bottle." Thomas Friedman grabbed my arm and said, "Don't you Judy Garland out on me! I do not want to waste money on Betty Ford!"
I had no idea what that meant. I believe Judy Garland was the little girl in a movie dreaming about somewhere over a rainbow and that Betty Ford was married to a president. Rainbows and White Houses? Sometimes my husband Thomas Friedman speaks in riddles.
I was tired all day yesterday and kept trying to take my vitamins but Thomas Friedman kept saying I had a holler monkey on my back. That must be some new game he is playing, like Iraqi invasion, because everytime I checked, there was no monkey on my back.
But if I thought the day of adult diaper rash was bad, I had seen nothing. FYI, his heinie, though overly hairy, is fine now.
But Thomas Friedman is not fine now. He is so angry and so upset. Thomas Friedman is even swallowing my vitamins by the handful. I said, "Thomas Friedman, I thought you grew up with plenty of citrus. Why do you need so many vitamins?"
Thomas Friedman glared at me with squinted eyes and barked, "Kiss my ass!"
I dropped to my knees and started kissing, thinking, "Oh, he wants me to play Bill Keller again."
And I was saying, "Thomas Friedman, I am nothing but a glorified copy boy! A proof reader! I am not fit to print your columns! I am not fit to breathe air in a world whose most amazing natural resource is the great Thomas Friedman!"
I thought I was saying the things Thomas Friedman had taught me correctly but he pushed me away and stormed back and forth across the room with his flip flops flipping and flopping and his shorty robe riding up in the back.
He took my bottle of vitamins to his lips and emptied what was left into his mouth then threw it on the floor just like he does his socks, underwear, pants, shirt, tie and Biore Deep Cleansing Pore Strips. My husband Thomas Friedman can be sloppy but he always reminds me that it is part of his charm, "my quirky, endearing trait, my trademark, like the half-smile on the Mona Lisa or the beauty mark on Cindy Crawford." If you say so, Thomas Friedman.
In the kitchen he was hollering for me to get in there. I found him with a plate of his soda crackers and holding the can of cheese.
"Bettina, watch this," Thomas Friedman said to me as he took the can to a soda cracker and waited. No cheese came out.
He threw the can and it hit me in the forehead.
"You have been eating my snacks! Were it not for me, you would still be slaving away in Trenton and this is the thanks I get? You sneak through my snacks like Judy Miller stealing K-rations from sleeping soldiers!"
Trenton? Is that the name of the village I come from? I was thinking how musical it sounded. Tren-ton. And I was wondering if all my people lived in mud huts like Thomas Friedman has told me? I was trying to picture Dumb Asswipe, the man who must have been chief because Thomas Friedman is always saying, "Who taught you to do it that way? Dumb Asswipe!" or
"This meal is not fit to eat! Dumb Asswipe!"
But then soda crackers started flying in my face, pulling me from my reflections.
"No, Thomas Friedman, I did not eat your canned cheese," I insisted. "I know it is delicacy only fit for a great man like Thomas Friedman. I know that you say it is so costly that you can afford but one can a week. I know you work hard and deserve all the finer things in life and that I am grateful to merely sit beside you and reflect in your good taste."
"Stop repeating everything I have taught you!" Thomas Friedman yelled slamming the plate against a counter.
I was grateful I did not have another mess to clean. Nicky had once mocked the great Thomas Friedman for using styrofoam plates, bowls and cups. He had used words like PCBs which assume are some words from his native tongue. Thomas Friedman had snarled, "You are the McToxic here, Kristof!"
I felt so bad for Nicky because John Tierney had been over that night. He calls my husband Thomas Friedman "Big Tom" and Thomas Friedman calls him "Little John." And Little John had laughed and laughed at Nicky and spat out "Recycling is garbage!"
This had caused Thomas Friedman and Little John to start slamming their hands against the table as their laughter increased. Good sport Nicky (Thomas Friedman says Nicky is nothing if not a good sport) joined in the laughter saying that if two out of three believed something he was always happy to make it three out of three. Then he entertained us all with a story of a deadly tribe that was destroying the world, Nicky called them feminists, and all was fine.
My mind raced to that as I thought of how if Thomas Friedman had been using a glass plate, it would have shattered and I would have had to pick up the pieces. And what if a shard had been embedded into our "vintage linoleum?" I shudder at the thought because Thomas Friedman is made of greatness not money, as Thomas Friedman always says.
Thomas Friedman was on the floor pounding his fists against the "vintage linoleum" and sobbing.
He was screaming about this and that and I did not understand it all. Something was causing tremendous damage and wrecking the world, some sort of wind that I am guessing might turn into a hurricane. Thomas Friedman kept talking about this and damning it. "Damn Gale Collins!"
That is how much my husband Thomas Friedman cares for the world. A gale had reduced him to tears. He is such a caring man, I reminded myself as I rubbed the bump on my forehead from where the can of cheese hit.
The gale had blown the entire world into disarray. Thomas Friedman was fearful for everyone because although he is the most important and perfect person in the world, he cares for everyone. He brought up Little John and was saying things like, "Little John is not ready for this! This is the big leagues!" And I am guessing that Nicky was taking one of his brief stands because Thomas Friedman was screaming that Nicky had stabbed him in the back and was not up to Sundays.
"There, there, Thomas Friedman," I said pulling his shorty robe down to cover his ample rear.
"You always say 'Nicky caves quicker than Carter.' He will come around. He is your friend."
Thomas Friedman howled, 'Kristof is not my friend!"
Somehow this mighty gale was blowing through and tossing everything into chaos. This gale would somehow even effect his book sales. "The whole world is against me! Damn that Gale Collins!" I am guessing that in gales, like in hurricanes, people do not buy many new books.
I know Thomas Friedman was already angry that an actress had gotten all the attention last week and that his friend Blinky had not booked him on Face the Nation this morning. Is the whole world against Thomas Friedman?"
"Not me," I told him.
"Bettina, my backwater democracy grown ever stagnant," Thomas Friedman said wiping his eyes, "You do not understand! They have pulled me from Sundays! The biggest circulation day! They have moved me to Fridays! The only thing worse would be to be Mo Do being moved to Saturday when no one looks!"
Mo Do? I do not know. But I told him, "Come now, Thomas Friedman, everyone looks at you. You are the great Thomas Friedman. Why just this morning, when you went out into the hall to grab the morning paper in your shorty robe, did not the elderly woman next door shriek and scream? Because you are the great Thomas Friedman. That is why."
But Thomas Friedman did not answer me. He was curled in the fetal position and sucking his thumb. He has been that way for the last three hours and I am really starting to worry.
Thomas Friedman expects me to have the kitchen floor scrubbed each day before dinner and it is already half-past five.
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