Maddy's so smart. She's known the answer the whole time.
"All she needs is an ectomy."
Of course!
I should have thought of that!!
If only Fran Drescher had an ectomy, she'd be okay.
I had wondered why Fran Drescher was popping up on Old Navy commercials. I had pondered her recent popularity. Questioned her apparent marketability. And, to be completely brutally honest, I had challenged her most basic appeal. I couldn't quite figure out who the Fran Drescher demographic was.
Except, of course, the obvious: deaf lifers.
I contacted Madeline immediately for an emergency consultation.
This wasn't one of our usual "do jeans still shrink on the 97th washing or am I just getting fatter" calls. No. This was one of those "I need to understand this and I need to understand this NOW...so I can resume life as I know it NOW" calls.
Madeline wasn't available.
Bitch.
So I emailed her.
If you mark an email high priority, does it really make a difference?
"What's the deal with Fran Drescher and all of those effeminate men in the Old Navy commercial? Since when is America in love with The Nanny? Did I miss something?"
Madeline wrote back post haste.
Madeline. The woman who refuses to acknowledge that I run because she doesn't believe that women who wear makeup can sweat.
Madeline. The woman who once threatened one of my boyfriends with death by torture if she ever saw me unhappy over anything besides a broken nail.
Madeline. The woman who makes Bill Maher look somewhat conservative, unusually gentle and highly appropriate.
Madeline refused to joke about Fran Drescher.
"Sorry, she's always reminded me of you. I think she's pretty...except for the voice."
Bitch.
Now don't get me wrong.
It's not that this is the first time I've heard the Nanny comparison.
When that damn show was on television, every guy of a certain ethnic persuasion - or two (I won't say which - but I won't deny if you guess) - said "hey, you look like that Nanny lady!"
And I probably did.
My hair was high. At that time. As were my heels. And my skirts were small.
My skirts were very very small.
So I can't really resent the comparison.
But Madeline knows better.
For strangers to look at me and see big hair, high heels and small skirts and see The Nanny was one thing.
But Madeline? Come on. We both knew that Fran Drescher was annoying. And that she could easily control that voice if she wanted to. Madeline was just clearly in a bad mood. She was obviously taking something out on me.
As if it's my fault she's got three bratty kids and a bathroom with no privacy.
Jeez.
Anyway, I confronted her about it a few mornings later.
"Look," I said, "I'm not saying Fran Drescher's a monster. I'm just saying I don't see why anyone would be inspired by her to actually buy anything. She's walking down the street looking at these guys and winking her eye and she's just not appealing. She looks annoying."
Madeline countered my every objection to Fran Drescher's appeal. We argued in circles for days.
Or it may have been minutes.
It was however long it takes for me to walk from the corner of Gallows and Cottage to the Metro.
Luckily, Madeline's used to getting ditched for the Orange Line's arrival.
"and then he tells me he's been seeing someone his ex-girlfriend the whole time we've been....OH! the train's here...call you later!!"
Madeline's flexible that way. Then again, with three bratty kids, most phone conversations get cut off at the critical time.
So anyway, just before the arrival of the New Carrolton train, Madeline said the magic words.
"She's really very pretty. It's just that voice of hers that's annoying. All she needs is an ectomy."
And then there was the grand flash of the epiphany before my eyes. Or maybe it was the light from the approaching Metro.
Either way, it was amazing. I finally realized what we all need.
In all of us, save two or three of us perhaps, there is a quality or characteristic or habit that so colors or even dominates our presence that it creates a barrier. That special something - perhaps an annoying something - that keeps the world from getting to know us and love us.
Madeline, for some reason, has been able to get beyond Fran Drescher's voice and understand the real inner - and outer - Nanny. But, then again, Madeline is a kind and caring soul.
Even if she did make Christopher Reeve jokes a little too soon after his accident.
So, what would your ectomy be?
What quality or characteristic or habit would you have removed in order that the world wouldn't be distracted from getting to know you the way those close to you know you?
What's your ectomy?
Oh god. That question doesn't sound good.
I used to want surgery to make my arms smaller.
No, not shorter. Just thinner. Like Gwyneth. Except back then there was no Gwyneth. Back then it was Audrey Hepburn and Mia Farrow. Later on it was any anorexic babe in a Victoria's Secret catalog.
But that's not an ectomy.
That's just a neurosis.
And a waste of time.
First of all, my arms aren't getting in anybody's way. Nobody's looking at me - be it my facade or the real me - and seeing only arms.
Second, I'm over my craving for skinny arms. These days I'm actually kind of into muscled over-developed arms. I've almost gone completely the other way, seeking out clothing styles that emphasize the bigness of my upper body. These days I like to think of myself as hulk-like. A massive girl. When I walk home at night I imagine someone trying to mess with me and me just beating them to a pulp.
Yeah. I'm massive.
So don't mess with me.
Anyway. Massive or not. An arm-ectomy it won't be. It can't be about my arms.
The question is: what is it about you that gets in the way of other people seeing you? What gets in the way of other people seeing you for who you are? Of seeing how wonderful you are?
I'd probably have to get rid of my attitude. I'm guessing that would be the vote of a few people in my life.
"Why do you have to be so contrary?"
Did I tell you my father's pet name for me is Smartass?
I've tried being less contrary. I have.
I've tried being nice. And gentle. And just smiling. And just saying sweet things.
But the question is always the same: what goes with the attitude when the attitude goes?
Would I be less sharp? Less witty? Less observant and appreciative of the inane?
In my experience, I've had trouble maintaining sweet and sharp. And although the sharp part of me sometimes gets in the way, I admit, it's far more stimulating and fun than sweet.
If I lost my attitude, would I start writing about how much I enjoyed experiencing the true comraderie of"Friends" and how having those six people in my living room on Thursday nights has made me a better and more loving person?
Would I finally see the deep meaning behind Mother's Day and Father's Day?
Would I think every baby is cute? Even the really ugly babies?
Maybe it's like everything deep. Maybe it's a double-edged sword.
Maybe Fran Drescher would have been a good nanny without the annoying voice. After all, she had great hair, great legs and great clothes. A little too flashy and loud, but definitely fun. And the story idea was fresh.
But maybe Nanny Frannie just wouldn't have been noticed - or distinguished from other big haired girls - without the unique quality of the annoying voice.
Recently I took an online test for anemia. I was pretty sure I was anemic before the test. After the test, I was ready to start eating live cows.
Do you feel tired?
Yes.
Do you look pale?
Yes.
Are you irritable?
YES, DAMN IT!
Do your nails have ridges and a lack of color?
Oh god, yes. Especially since I stopped getting manicures.
Do you find yourself unable to forgive young people who take up seats on the evening metro when you, an elderly person with an ass that weighs more than them, need that seat way more than they do?
Those bastards.
So I started eating meat right away.
Because the last time I felt anemic I just ate a couple of cartons of eggs. And nothing happened. Aside from that sick feeling one gets after eating way too many eggs.
But the anemia test was easy.
Are you tired? Yes. Congratulations, you're anemic.
I think the ectomy issue would also be more easily addressed with a test.
So, here's the test:
How would someone else finish this sentence regarding you?
"(Your name here) is so (positive attribute here); if only he/she weren't so damn (negative attribute here)."
Or...
"(Your name here) is so (positive attribute here); it's a shame he/she can't stop (negative attribute here)."
Okay, then.
The negative attibute in the final set of parenthesis is your ectomy.
So, for instance, let's say someone says this about me:
"Donna is so amazingly sexy and smart and superior to all others on earth; if only she didn't have that third breast."
See how easy it is? My third breast would be my ectomy.
I'd go to the Ectomologist and arrange for an ectomy of my third breast.
Unless, of course, I met a rich guy who's into third breasts.
Let's try another one:
"Arnold Schwartzenneger is so politically astute; if only he weren't so vulnerible to the wiles of women wielding dangerous curves and crevices."
Or this:
"Eminem is so authentic and credible and skilled in his craft; if only he could stop pursing his lips so tightly all the time. It makes him seem so tense and serious."
Now, of course, the ectomy wouldn't be covered by insurance. Since, of course, it wouldn't be necessary surgery. Ectomies would be purely elective.
Which, of course, brings us to the most fundamental issue:
It's the "isn't it a shame" issue.
The whole thing started because I think it's a shame that people don't like Fran Drescher because they can't get past her voice.
Now maybe they do like Fran Drescher.
I'm really just not sure whether Old Navy's using her because people like her or because people hate her. Maybe it's that old reverse psychology marketing strategy thing. Do a commercial people hate and they'll remember your product.
Personally, that's my strategy. Be so annoying that people can't forget me. Be so annoying that my mark's made permanently.
But I really do think it's a shame.
Because I'm sure Nanny Frannie's nice.
I mean, I don't really know if she's nice.
But I have no reason to believe that she's not. Plus, she had cancer.
So I'm thinking it would be kind of good if folks got to know her instead of just getting stuck at that annoying voice.
But maybe it's not a shame. Maybe Fran Drescher's life is fine. Maybe she's really happy. And maybe her life is infinitely better than it would have been without that damn voice.
And maybe Eminem wouldn't be so Slim and so Shady if he got rid of the scowl.
And maybe it's groping that keeps Ahhhh-nold so political and so ass-tute.
And, while we're on the subject, do we really want everyone to get to know our inner beautiful selves us the way our loved ones know us?
I don't know.
In order for others - those not so close to me - to get to know me, I know what I'd have to do.
First, I'd have to be less bold. Sometimes my boldness scares people. Or makes them think I'm overly confident.
Second, I'd have to be less sarcastic. I know. You're trying to remember if I've ever been sarcastic. But, believe me, even though I'm usually gentle, there are isolated times when something a little more tough slips out of my mouth.
Third, I'd have to be less intense. Especially when it comes to debating semantics and other matters of no matter. Apparently, intensity's a little too...how shall I say...intense. For some people, anyway.
But if I were less of those things, maybe I'd just be bland. Just another okay person that nobody really noticed.
Or, maybe I've just got it wrong.
Maybe those aren't even my ectomies.
Maybe it's something else.
Maybe there's something else about me - something I'm not even aware of - that keeps others from looking into who I am. Something that blocks their view.
The problem is, what blocks one person's view is precisely the mechanism that provides an invitation to another.
Fran Drescher's voice turned me off. But it may have invited lots of others in.
The elder sniper represented himself for one day. In that time, jury experts say he could have "connected" with the jury, showing them his human side.
Other jury experts say he could have distanced himself further from them by appearing manipulative.
In younger years, I was more shy and anxious in social situations. More often than not, I'd find myself looking down, lips clenched together, focused on ways to not draw attention to myself.
I remember meeting someone at a party years ago. Someone who'd seen me around. He offered that he'd thought about talking to me, but that I didn't seem interested.
I told him I probably was interested. But I was nervous.
He was shocked. He had thought all along that I walked around looking so serious because I was deep in thought, concentrating on highly important topics. He thought I was just the opposite of what I was at that time. He thought I was confident in myself and focused entirely on the outside world.
He didn't know I'd go out of my way to avoid the smallest interaction with someone. Afraid they'd notice that day's blemish. Or the fact that my black wasn't all the same exact shade of black.
At that time, I would have had an anxiety ectomy. At that time, I would have had a long ectomy list.
These days, I'm pretty sure it still all comes down to my attitude.
But I know that my "attitude" has come in handy many a time. And I don't view it as an attitude at all, to be honest. I don't even usually know I'm being contrary until somebody points it out.
It generally goes like this.
I won't even realize I'm talking - or not talking - until the other person indicates their strong desire to hit me.
Not in a violent or hostile way.
But in that fun, cute, sexy, "you make me want to strangle you" kind of way.
I was having trouble with my own ectomy issues, so I looked around. I looked at people - usually at their butt or chest - and considered what about them distracted others from getting to know them.
And in almost every case, their ectomy was also critical to the rest of their personality and presence.
So I've decided to skip the ectomy.
And I'm looking at Fran Drescher in a whole new way.
And, just for the record, I'm heading over to Old Navy today.
Not because of Fran, mind you.
It's just that they've got these really flattering jeans.
Jeans that make your butt look good enough that people won't even care about the real you.
After all, who needs big hair, high heels, very small skirts and a gently, sweet demeanor when they've got Old Navy?