I Hate Everyone, Except You(54)

“Not my type,” I said.

Because I ignored the table after dropping the credit card slip, I didn’t see who wrote WOOF on the twenty. I like to think Slave Boy grabbed the pen and wrote it as a message to me, but I still don’t know exactly what he was trying to communicate. My best guess: Woof, don’t worry about this cocker spaniel. He’s doing just fine.





YOUR A PSYCHOPATH


A university—at least I think it was a university—recently published a study about the correlation between psychopathy and the tendency to correct other people’s grammar. To be completely honest, I didn’t read the study; I heard a joke about it on NPR’s news quiz, Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me! And I was scrubbing a roasting pan in the kitchen sink at the time, so I might really be screwing this up. But from what I gather, the type of person who might make a snarky remark about your dangling participle is also extremely likely to have a nightstand full of human femurs.

Talk about shit you don’t want to know about yourself! Correcting grammar is one of my favorite pastimes. Damn, I thought, I’m a psycho and I’ve been completely unaware of it, all these years! That can happen, you know. I feel like I might have seen a Dateline episode about it. Like, maybe I’m living a double life, hosting TV shows, writing books, walking my dog, redecorating the guest bedroom, but then without warning my brain short-circuits and I go on a killing spree. I think an abstract floral pillow might be nice on this chaise. Boing! Must. Eat. Raw. Squirrels. I would ask Damon if I ever come home late at night in a fugue state covered in blood, but I don’t really want to know the answer.

There must be additional indicators of a psychopathic personality beyond grammar. Things that complex are never black or white. You notice that a friend writes to in a text message when it’s obvious she meant to write too and before you know it you’re craving fava beans and a nice Chianti? I just don’t believe it! I majored in psychology for an entire semester my freshman year at Boston College, so I feel pretty qualified to determine who is and isn’t a psychopath. For example, in my opinion, you’re a psychopath if:

a) you correct the grammar of people you actually like or love, and

b) you do so in front of others.

Allow me to provide an example from my own life. My dad, Mike, seems to enjoy using the phrase “not for nothing.” He might say during Christmas dinner something along the lines of, “Not for nothing, but I noticed your car is leaking oil. You should probably have that checked out.” Do I scream, “Double negative! Double negative! Dad used a double negative!” Of course not. That would be psychotic. And also, my dad just doesn’t give a crap about perfect grammar. I’ve noticed that if I use the word whom in my parents’ house, he’ll make an excuse to go fix something in the basement.

“You know, Dad, there’s this facialist in Manhattan with whom I have the best rapport. She’s a doll. The next time you and Mom come in for a visit, we should all go get facials together! It’ll be a scream.”

“That sounds fun, Clint. Aw, man, I just remembered that two weeks ago I smelled gas coming out of the . . . uh . . . out of the foundation. I’m gonna go check that out. Wanna help?”

“Yeah, no. I thought I’d make some crepes. Where do you keep the hazelnut flour these days?”

“You’d have to ask your mother. Terri!” (Runs down basement steps.)

The grammar I correct is mostly in my own head. If you and I strike up a conversation at a cocktail party, will I notice if your subject is singular and your verb is plural? Of course. But I won’t mention it, at least not to your face. I’ll just tell all my friends that, to maintain their own high social standing, they should avoid being seen with you in public. A psychopath, on the other hand, would tell you, right then and there, “In the sentence, The bouquet of flowers he sent me are lovely, the subject, bouquet, is singular and therefore takes the singular verb is, despite the fact that there are multiple flowers in said bouquet. The bouquet is lovely. See the difference?” And then he’d shove a shiv in your liver while reaching for another canapé.

I’m glad we talked this out because I’m feeling much better about myself. Whew, I’m not a psycho! Yay! There is an exception, though, to my self-imposed not-in-public rule: complete strangers who have decided to tell me via social media just how much I suck at life.

Because I make my living on TV, certain members of the population find it socially acceptable to spew vitriol in my general direction online. And before I go any further, I must say that 99.99 percent of all the comments I receive on social media are either positive or extremely positive, which is amazing. The only public figures with higher favorability percentages than mine are Betty White and that little kid who got high on nitrous oxide at the dentist’s office. So, I’m truly grateful that the vast majority of people who choose to communicate with me are respectful and polite, but as Mike would say, not for nothing, that teeny sliver of a minority can be really fucking annoying.

And no, my feelings aren’t easily hurt or anything. (Spend thirteen years in the television industry, and you too can develop the thick layer of emotional callouses necessary for a successful career!) If you don’t like my sense of humor, I don’t care. If you don’t like my clothes, I don’t care. If you don’t like my sexuality, I don’t care. If it makes you feel better about yourself to tell me I’m a worthless sack of crap, knock yourself out. But I’d prefer you do it using your real name, with your actual photo, and in impeccable English. Which never happens.