Better to Remain Silent and Be Thought a Fool Than to Speak and Remove All Doubt…

Notes from New York…

by Mollie Fermaglich

We all have talents. Skills. Things we’ve done or can do, have, know, that perhaps many people don’t, can’t or haven’t even considered. Many of us, and rightly so, are proud of our accomplishments. You served in the military? A sincere thanks from me to you. You volunteer at a senior center, a hospital, an animal shelter? That’s something to be proud of. You won a Pulitzer, an Olympic gold medal, a Fulbright Scholarship? Nice. But…

…how about the things you’ve done that you truly believe are major feats of performance and/or endurance and/or intelligence that — trust me – are not? Your friends and family are too caring and loving to tell you that. I’m not. Here are some things you want to share with the rest of us. But you shouldn’t.

I quit smoking

Wow. That means you’ll live even longer to annoy even more people, especially current smokers, during your lifetime that could have been cut shorter if only you hadn’t quit. No one cares. Correction. RJ Reynolds and Philip Morris care. And they’d like you to reconsider. “But, Mollie, you say – “except for conjugating irregular French verbs, stopping smoking was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Gee – you wanted to live another 30 years and avoid those vertical lines above your upper lip. I have a good idea – each time you are tempted to open that now phlegm-free mouth with those three words, you must pay the cost of a pack of cigarettes to the person you’ve annoyed with “I stopped smoking.” Do you really want to hand over $20 each time you slip up?  Alternatively, you could just start smoking again. I’m pretty sure we won’t be verbally assaulted with, “I started smoking again.”

I’m a very fast reader.

Really? And? Unless there’s a now a Nobel Prize for Speedy Readers, what’s the point, and, more importantly, what’s the point of sharing it with anyone? Try starting a cocktail party conversation with, or posting on your Tik-Tok account “I read Crime and Punishment in one afternoon,” and keep track of all the people you repel. The thing of it is no one – absolutely no one – gives a shit. How long did it take you to read that?

I work at a non-profit

What does that mean? It would certainly help me to know whether to be impressed or to laugh at you, Non-profit? That sounds like you’re not too good with a dollar. It’s like saying, “I teach at a non-school,” or “I write for a non-newspaper.” It gives me as much information as a container of “non-dairy creamer.” In other words, I don’t know what it is, just what it isn’t. I, for one, am non-interested.

I recycle

You mean you separate your plastics from your cans, you bring your cans and bottles back to the supermarket, and you bundle your newspapers with cord and make a separate pile for magazines and…zzzz. Oh – I’m sorry. I just nodded out like a junkie on the subway listening to you. When a party invitation says, “BYOB, it doesn’t mean “Bring Your Own Bore,” in which case your dance-card would be mighty full.

“I ran the NYC marathon”

Tell me you ran from a mugger or ran toward a burning house to save some children and pets, or you ran for a bus which, if you didn’t catch you’d have to wait 58 minutes for the next one. I completely understand all of the above. But, when you tell me you ran the NYC marathon, my first thought is: why did you stop in Central Park, instead of continuing until you get to – oh, I don’t know – Wyoming? Why so hostile, Mollie? Well, I’ll tell you why.

There’s information you impart that no one wants to listen to. “I have to eat just to keep weight on.” How nice for you. Every person who’s had to eat nothing but ice chips for a week to lose one pound would like to pummel you in the face with a gallon of Gatorade, the Gatorade that comes in a glass bottle.

Your fast metabolism does not make up for how fugly you look in your stupid running shorts which, by the way, guys, are a tad effeminate-looking. When I see any of you stretching on a park bench before you run, I want to sneak up from behind you, kick the back of the knee of the leg that’s on the ground, and watch you tumble like a pair of dice on a craps table.

Here’s something else I know – no one ever asks you, but you love to tell us, “I have a BMI of 18.” Guess what? You are still going to die, and you keep offering that unsolicited bit of information, it might not be from natural causes. It’s clear you want to be super-thin and bony and you lady runners – you love it when your collar bone sticks out like a coat-hook.

I’ll admit – while most of you are in admirable shape, some of you look like Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas. I love the Mylar cape you wear after you cross the finish line – bet that makes you feel like a super-hero. Yes, you are Super Baked Potato Man! And I bet you check the New York Times’ list of runners the next day to see where you placed.  How does it feel when you see you came in 29,457th even with your $500 Adidas Adizero Adios Pro Evo 2 running shoes, and a barefoot Kenyan took first place? Again. See you at the Verrazano Bridge start line next year and don’t just run – jump.

I speak five languages.”

I speak one. Shut up.

I tan easily

Um…do you really think that’s an accomplishment? Because, you know, if I eat rolls before the main course is served, I get full easily. If I’m wearing a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops during a blizzard, I get cold easily. You tan easily? In 30 years, when your neck looks like crispy chicken skin, the rest of you like a Louis Vuitton bag and there’s a malignant melanoma the size of a dodge ball on your upper back, I’m guessing the fact that you tan easily won’t be so much a feat as it will be an answer to, “Why do you look like that?”

“I know all of the dialogue from all 11 Star Wars movie

Only an accomplishmentif you wrote all the dialogue for every Star Wars movie. Ask George Lucas.

“I know how cats think.”

Oh, really? Has “Whiskers” confirmed this? If so, please ask him what’s so fun about batting around a feather on a long flexible plastic rod, and what’s up with that pigeon head-bob all cats she does before puking up those hairballs. Why do cats derive inordinate pleasure chasing that plastic ball with the bell inside around the house for 19 straight hours for no other reason than to keep humans from sleeping? Why does he prefer washing himself with that sandpaper tongue instead of luxuriating in a hot bath, replete with bath oil beads and a nice glass of wine? I could keep on with these inane questions for a week. What’s that? You only think you know how cats think but, at best, you have an over-active imagination, a urine-soaked home and no friends. Ahhh — thought so.

I beat the casino

The first thing this tells me is that you’re probably a low-life who likes all-you-can-eat buffets, watered down drinks, and Motley Crue tribute bands. In order to ‘beat’ the casino means you have to be in a casino which, unless you’re James Bond, a Bond girl and/or a guest of the Grimaldi family playing baccarat at the Casino de Monaco. Atlantic City? Vegas? A Mississippi Steamboat Casino? Most people would respond more favorably to “I eat off the floor and no five-minute rule” than the Wheel of Fortune slots are my go-to!” this is something I would keep to myself. Take a step back, try to look at yourself objectively: you’re sitting in front of a slot machine the size of a refrigerator/freezer, a free scotch or cocktail or Diet Coke in front of you. Guys – I’m guessing you’re wearing some sort of track or sweat suit, perhaps, depending on the season, velour quarter-zip or Cuban guayabera shirt. And ladies, I see you in fugly windbreakers and anything polyester, including a graphic sweatshirt that says, “Gambling Grandma,” or perhaps with an appliquéd, sparkly basket of kittens on it and the words, “I’m Feline Good!”

“I’d tell you my handicap, but I don’t want to make you feel bad”

Sometimes it’s fun to live vicariously, but I’d rather hear about your sleep apnea than your golf game. I have made a conscious effort in my lifetime to know less about golf than the life cycle of the Eurasian Tree Sparrow. Mark Twain said, ‘golf is a good walk spoiled,” and your imparting any information about your golf game is a good walk spoiled with audio.

“I know American Sign Language”

How do you say, “I don’t give a shit” in American sign language? This is not just some writer’s device to end this piece. The next time you see me at a party or the grocery store or the dog run, resist the temptation to run over to me and tell me in sign language that you just got your SCUBA license or that your grandson can read and he’s only 14 months old. You might be tempted but now you know better. Tough love. It works.