Julie Luongo

I haven’t talked about this for a while. I’ve been feeling pretty generous lately, what with my birthday and all. But I’ll bet I can come up with something. Let’s see. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Ok, I’ve got one. My friend has a mom that I hate. She enrages me, this mother. She’s an ill-mannered pill popper who makes me shiver whenever I think of her. If I could pick a fight with anyone, it would be with this nut job and I would kick her ass. I can get crazy.

Here’s a slightly fictionalized version of a story about this mommy dearest.

When my friend was a little kid, he thought his grandfather walked on water. They were pals. Great pals as only grandpas and grandsons can me.

One night when my friend was 10 or so his grandfather called, as he often did, and they chatted. They were friends like that. Grandpa mentioned in passing that he didn’t feel so well. That night grandpa died.

During the fallout, my sad little buddy told his mother about his phone conversation with Grandpa. After the funeral, in the car on the way to some depressing death-event, the mother said to her grieving son, “Don’t you wish you would have told me Grandpa said he wasn’t feeling well?”

I know, I know. It’s horrible. Especially if you know any 10-year-olds. But here’s why the hate is unwarranted. And I’m really stretching it. But had this bitch not been as crappy as she was, I wouldn’t have my great friend exactly as he is right now. And he’s great!

The illustration is by Pili Alvarez. Check her out.

I hate those overly cheerful woman who act like you’re eavesdropping on a meeting they’re having for the wildly fun private club they have with their friends.

I was at a yard sale the other weekend because I love cheap junk, and the women hosting it were talking loudly about nothing – their kids, dogs, the weather, where so-and-so was, how much pizza they should get. These are not conversations that need to take place ever, much less at high volumes in cheerful tones. If you want attention, try engaging the people you’re showboating for. 

These cheerful matrons make me very nervous. They look like this to me:

I’m a social type. I like parties and gatherings. I enjoy meeting new people and talking to strangers.

Once I spent the day with my friend and her friend, whom I’d never met. Now, this woman, let’s call her Oblivious, was interesting enough. And by interesting I mean she talked all the time about stuff she bought and stuff she wanted to buy. This is interesting because it’s extremely odd. And this is odd because she clearly had no idea that we didn’t care about her Pier-One-Sax-BMW-driven materialistic urges.

I didn’t care so much that her choice of subjects never improved. I’m truly fascinated by people, and I try to find the good in even the most distasteful of our gaggle. And the fascinating thing about Oblivious was how very earnest she was about her passion for everything with a brand name. She was also neurotic, obsessive, and intelligent. A unique simpleton, indeed.

Here’s where the unwarranted hate comes in. I had spent all day and night listening to her inane blathering. I knew about everything she ever bought, every exercise she ever attempted, every boring sex act she and her boyfriend tried, and every ordinary trip she ever took. And all of this was unsolicited. I had ceased even feigning interest almost immediately.

To her credit, she wasn’t really talking to us. She was just talking. But she wasn’t maliciously boring. She just had a bloated sense of her own importance. And, because it came from such an innocent place, it was forgivable.

After a long day of jawing, she was ready to pack it in. She was saying her overly long goodbyes, replete with tangents about her nails and hair, when I saw her notice me. She cocked her head a little, like a dog. And she asked me what I do for a living by telling me what I didn’t do in the manner of, “so, you work at the Best Buy?” Something way off base like that.

I went to correct her. “No, I …”

Oblivious looked in her purse just then, no doubt wondering if Louis Vuitton was chichi enough.

“I work in a corn dog test kitchen,” I finished.

“I wonder if I can get a new Louie?” she said in response.

And that did it. I had listened to her inane crap all day, excusing her behavior as harmless cluelessness. But once she showed that she couldn’t gather even the most rudimentary knowledge about the person she divulged her whole painfully common history to, well, then she was dead to me.

Hey, Madonna, you’re not British. You’re from Michigan.

I grew up with Madonna – Lucky Star on the bus in 8th grade. Like a Virgin at Ann’s pool party. I spent a summer vacation watching hundreds of True Blue videos when she had that MTV contest. Desperately Seeking Susan gave me permission to be wild and pack light. The Immaculate Collection was with me though college. Blond Ambition encouraged me when I hit the job market.

We grew apart during Dick Tracy. I gave her props for that Keshishian documentary, but didn’t actually watch it. And now I’m done with her. It’s not just a relationship that’s run its course. She’s earned my unwarranted hate.

Madonna, redefining yourself is vastly different from adopting a whole new persona. What’s next? Will you go meet the Bushmen and start clicking? Go ahead. You can’t possible sound any more ridiculous than you do now. Because I’m going to clue you in, your accent is British-ish. You sound like a bad actress trying to sound British … oh, wait a second, that’s exactly what’s going on here.

I can’t wait to get married. Married men are so romantic and creative. They’re always suggesting cozy hideaways and spontaneous vacations.

Oh, wait…those men are married to other people. I change my mind.

Really, now. Come on, guys. Speaking for the single women I know - let me clue you in - we don’t want you. And even if we did, we’ve seen those Lifetime movies. We don’t want to get shot in the face by your wife and eventually jilted by you.

And guess what? We’re not married because we’re discriminating. We didn’t want you when you were single. Because we knew you didn’t have any integrity then. We feel sorry for your wives and we think you’re ridiculous.

So, go and watch Girls Gone Wild and fantasize about what your life would be like if you were good enough for us.