Rita Rudner - I Still Have It . . . I Just Cant Remember Where I Put It: Confessions of a Fiftysomething

Acknowledgments

ID LIKE TO THANK my publisher, Shaye Areheart, for commissioning this book; my agent, Alan Nevins, for reminding Shaye that shed commissioned this book, and my husband, Martin Bergman, for reminding me to write this book.

ALSO BY RITA RUDNER

Turning the Tables

Naked Beneath My Clothes

Tickled Pink

Rita Rudners Guide to Men

About the Author

RITA RUDNER is a celebrated and award-winning comedian, actress, screenwriter, presenter, and author. Past books include the bestselling Naked Beneath My Clothes and the novels Tickled Pink and Turning the Tables.

I Cant Believe Im Filthy

T HERE IS SOMETHING SO TRAUMATIC ABOUT A woman turning fifty that for a while I was unable to form the actual word. I was more comfortable getting a laugh and telling people I was filthy than having to say the word fffiffffty. In fact, I still stutter a bit, even in print. Half a century is a long time to be on the planet, and though Im grateful to be not only alive but healthy, being healthy gives you the freedom to obsess over the things that dont really matter, like wrinkles, veins, and how tricky it is these days just to be able to turn onexcuse me, I mean power upa television.

I feel that life is broken down into these stages: youre born and you dont know how anything works; gradually you find out how everything works; technology evolves and slowly there are a few things you cant work; at the end, you dont know how anything works.

With the passing of every decade, our mortality becomes a little clearer and our eyesight a little fuzzier. One day the writing on the menu becomes so blurry you just cant bluff anymore. Now, I have to mention that in this optical respect, Im lucky. I can see close up and my husband can see far away, so were covered. He tells me whos in the movie and I tell him whats in his sandwich. Together were human bifocals.

The comforting factor about age is that nobody is immune. The blond-haired bombshells of today are the blue-haired ladies of tomorrow. When I turned fifty, it also gave me cause to reflect on all the things that have gone right in my life. Marrying the right man, choosing the right career, and making sure my closet had lots of hanging space were all good decisions.

Fifty also caused me to reflect on friends who have left me too early due to genetics, disease, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hope Im lucky enough to live until Im totally incontinentI mean incompetent. In the meantime, Im determined to enjoy and celebrate everything about being in my filthies.

Catalogue Addiction

W HILE I DO OCCASIONALLY ORDER ITEMS ON THE Internet, its hard to teach an old shopper new tricks. Im convinced that the catalogue will eventually disappear, but not until the last baby boomers have kicked off their smelly Nikes and been buried in mulch.

There is currently no treatment center in Malibu for catalogue addiction, so I was forced to assemble a group of women with similar problems to meet in my living room. They all had room to sit once I moved some catalogues.

I blame Victorias Secret. My friend ordered a blouse for me as a birthday present, and the companys first final clearance catalogue made its way into my clutches three houses ago. It doesnt matter how often I move; the catalogue knows where Im living. If Im ever kidnapped, Im certain it would find me before the police.

After perusing the final clearance issue numerous times and folding down the corners of pages showing outfits that were in the running but had not yet won my love, I ordered a pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Since then, I have received roughly three hundred catalogues featuring buxom babes clad in scanty attire. On page 27 you can still find the same pink sweatsuit I ordered ten years ago. Either I am the only woman in the world who likes pink sweatsuits or they dramatically overstockor possibly they just like the picture.

Now, I love the Victorias Secret catalogue, but I have to mention that with each issue it edges closer and closer to pornography. The bosoms on the otherwise skinny women appear to be inflated. The last issue was so chockfull of overly endowed ladies, I couldnt even keep the magazine closed. And where exactly would I wear a head-to-toe black lace jumpsuit? At a Peeping Tom convention? Plus, as far as I know, there are only two types of women who prefer garter belts and stockings to panty hose: hookers and my mother-in-law. Hookers because of obvious reasons, and my mother-in-law because of her unwillingness to acknowledge the existence of any stocking advancements since 1947.

The Victorias Secret catalogue was only the tip of my problem. If that were the only booklet I was receiving, my mailman would not be in the hospital with a hernia. Word instantly goes out into the catalogue universe if you order so much as a pen, and the next day your mailbox is stuffed with a cornucopia of nonsense.

It was last November that I first noticed Herb exiting from his mail truck rather delicately as he lifted the block of catalogues too thick to be placed in my mailbox and dropped them on the ground like firewood.

I think this might be my last holiday season delivery, he said. My lumbar support belt isnt really cutting it anymore.

Is it me? Is it my catalogues? I asked guiltily.

Its not just you, he reassured me. Its all womenand Neiman Marcus.

Is it the BOOK? I belched.

Yes, the BOOK is here. I have the BOOK.

Is it in that stack of crap? You dont put the BOOK in a stack of crap, I said, pointing to the roped-together periodicals.

No, I separated it. It was too heavy.

Herb then handed me the BOOK. If you are not familiar with the BOOK, every Christmas Neiman Marcus puts out a BOOK of things that people cant possibly afford. Its beautiful, its classy, and last year it featured a space station that cost several million dollars. I took it from Herb and caressed it with my nearsighted eyes.

Herb then handed me seven catalogues from Pottery Barn.

Can I ask you something? Herb mumbled wearily.

Sure, I replied, folding down a corner of a page of the BOOK featuring a belt costing 65,000 dollars.

Why do you need seven catalogues that are exactly the same?

If you look closely, theyre not all exactly the same. My name is spelled slightly differently on every single copy. The computer made a mistake and there is no going back.

So when they come next time, can I throw away five of them?

What? Are you mad? Theyre a family. When I throw them away, I want them to be together.

The really sad thing is that I havent ordered anything from Pottery Barn for over six years. But you never knowsomeday a lamp, a bed frame, and a bureau just might catch my eye and we could be together for the rest of our lives.

It was then that I spotted Herb holding the new Williams-Sonoma, or as my mother-in-law calls it, Williams and Sonoma. She might be right. It has to take at least two people to think up that many things nobody needs.

Give that to me, I commanded.

Dont grab, Herb scolded, pulling it away. Your husband promised me a big Christmas tip if I didnt let you have this.

Ill give you a bigger one if you give it to me, I replied, ripping it out of his hands.

Please dont sign me up for the cheese-of-the-month club again. I cant take it, Herb pleaded. Nobody could eat that much cheese. Mickey Mouse would have given up on it.

You didnt like my cheese gift? I asked in horror. It cost two hundred and twenty dollars plus shipping.