Tip It!
Authors: Maggie Griffin
IT!
M
AGGIE
G
RIFFIN
The World
According to Maggie
To my beloved husband, J
OHN
, and son K
EN
, who are
no longer with me, and to J
OYCE
, G
ARY
, J
OHN
M.,
and K
ATHY
for your love and humor
O
h gosh, where do I begin?
The first thing you should know, readers, is that I don’t really like to watch myself on my daughter Kathy’s television show. I think I look different than I really look. My voice sounds different than I think it does. Seeing myself on television makes me hate the sound of my voice. I think I look and sound dumb.
Really, I think I look and sound crappy!
But then my friends or my kids tell me, “Well, that’s you.”
I know they don’t mean the “crappy” part. I’m pretty sure what they mean is, I come off natural on television. Well, I’ve always had a good rapport with my youngest, my daughter Kathleen. I’ve certainly always felt natural with Kathy. At ease. But as you all may know, she loves saying things on television she knows I don’t want to talk about. Certain things she does to provoke me, I could kill her for. And all that foul language! Christ. But I do the best I can. I go along with it. When you see me on
My Life on the D-List,
look at my body language, look how I sort of pull my arms and legs in close, getting ready for whatever she might say next; it must look like I’m warding off some impending storm when I’m on camera with her.
As long as I’ve watched her do stand-up, that moment has always come. She starts with, “Oh, I’ve got something to tell you about Maggie . . .” and it’s all I can do not to try and figure out what it could possibly be she’s going to tell about.
Usually all I can come up with is, “Oh my GOD, now what??”
I love Kathy, but I’m totally unlike her in many ways. First of all, I hate controversy. Hate it. I hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. And I really like people. Mostly, I just like them to like me.
But when you watch Kathy imitate me in her act—all the swear words, the tough-sounding voice, and the complaining—even
I
get to thinking, “Gee, that Maggie really is a hard old dame!” Sometimes it’s fun to play along. Some nice young kids recognized me recently, and they asked if they could take a picture of me. I said “Sure,” and then they wanted to know if I’d flip them off for the camera. So I stuck my middle finger right out there and smiled. Well, why not? Maybe it’s fun to have people think of ordinary wife and mom Maggie Griffin as being a little naughty once in a while!
People are generally really nice to me when they meet me out and about. They’ll say, “I wish I had a mom like you!” Or “You’re just like my mom!” And I think I know why. I’m a regular mom. I’m not a mother who pampers Kathy and caters to her. I love my daughter, and I’m immensely supportive of her, but hey, I tell her off. I know how to give her the business. I put her down. Not in a bad way, and I don’t mean putting her down like a sick animal. That’s a different kind of putting down. Again, I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, but I’ll say what needs to be said. “That was TERRIBLE, Kathy!” Or “I don’t like that part!” Or “Enough already with the bad language.”
Christ, that foul mouth gets old, Kathy.
Other times, when people on the street meet me, they refer to “your show.” I may correct them—“Oh, it’s not
my
show”—but I’ll be a little devilish about it later and goad Kathy by telling her what they said. “Since when did it become ‘My Life with Maggie Griffin’?” Kathy will say, and that makes me smile.
I get the whole thing about her giving me a hard time. Her goal is to provoke me, to confuse me, to rattle me, and let’s face it, probably to make me look stupid. Then everybody laughs. It’s very natural, what she and I do. Kathy doesn’t make me mad, though, because I know why she’s asking me those things. She’s a comedian—a wonderful one, if I do say so myself—and if all I have to do is answer her the way I feel like answering her, and it’s apparently funny, then fine.
My daughter Kathleen put out her memoir last year,
Official Book Club Selection
, which was real nice except for the controversial parts. But now I have a book. It’s my turn, Kathy. I have some things to say, too, without having to be all controversial like you were. I have things to say about you. About me. About you
about
me. About where I came from. About the way the world has changed. About being a mom. About Hollywood. About wine. About
my
gays. About my dear departed husband, John Patrick Griffin. About how disgraceful children’s clothes are these days. About how wonderful Bill O’Reilly is. That’s right, Kathy.
Bill O’Reilly
. “My boyfriend,” as you call him. He made you Pinhead of the Week once.
He got no argument from me.
In fact, he got a “Tip it!”
Hey everyone,
Maybe, like you, I picked up my mom’s book hoping to find out how to be a tough, happy nonagenarian, for Chrissakes. Frankly, I also wanted to learn how she ended up getting a stronger gay fan base than I have.
But I’ve noticed that certain passages are—how shall I put this?—not entirely forthcoming about our relationship. Where I see my mother as a spotlight-hogging, wine-tipping muumuu wearer with a sailor’s mouth, she sees herself as a good Catholic girl who through no fault of her own raised a potty-mouthed, trash-talking comedian who’s shamed the family. This is the eternal struggle of our relationship, and—I’m guessing—isn’t unlike a lot of mother-daughter relationships. And I guess when you get your own memoir, you’re allowed to write what you want about yourself, and leave out the inconvenient parts, which I did not do in
Official Book Club Selection,
now available in paperback everywhere.
But since she’s my mom—and since I know she’s not going to reread her manuscript because she’d rather be watching
Judge Judy
or tippin’ it—an opportunity arose for me to take a pen and add my two cents’ worth without her ever noticing.
So I did.
Which means throughout this book, I’ve done only what I
had
to do as a concerned teller of dick jokes: crash the party, with my own “inconvenient” comments and observations. In some places I confront my mother outright. Think of
me
as Judge Judy when she has to get the truth out of a reluctant layabout. Or Nancy Grace when someone isn’t paying enough attention to her twins.
There are plenty of sweet moments that need nothing from me, but other parts are just too crazy-sounding—I had to intervene.
So to use one of Maggie’s favorite turns of phrase, I’ll speak to you further!
XXOO
Kathy
M
uumuu, duster, housedress, apron, caftan, smock, Mother Hubbard dress . . . Whatever you want to call it, I like to wear it. So sue me. [
Okay then, but the stretched-out Sears &
Roebuck 1978 girdle underneath becomes Exhibit A.
] They’re so darned comfortable and convenient [
so embarrassing when Mom swears like that
], no matter what Kathy says. Even back in my prime mothering days when women started to wear jeans and sweatshirts or T-shirts as their at-home clothing, I stuck with my dusters—which is what I always called them—because they were real handy. I’m not so modern, I guess, which is probably why my kids tease me about muumuus. [
So glad my mom wasn’t one of those whore-moms who wore jeans
.]
When I was a kid, my mother wore a fresh pullover apron every day that was really like a dress. Sometimes she’d then put on another apron over that, the kind you tie in back. As I got older, though, you started to see aprons with snaps down the front, or zippers, that were easy to pull on, easy to pull off [
where is this going, Mom?
], and at the end of the day you could just throw it in the laundry. The name “duster,” which is what I grew up with, says it all. You wore them while you did your dusting and other housework. [
Whew.
]
Let’s face it, a woman needed something in between pajamas and dressy clothes if she was housebound but faced with the possibility of visitors at any moment. If a traveling salesman came to the door and you were wearing pajamas, that’d be far from nice. Not only would you be ill at ease, you might give a stranger unnecessary thoughts about you in the bedroom. [
Dear Penthouse Forum, I never thought this could happen to my mom . . .
] Well, there’s nothing seductive about a duster. It’s loose-fitting, presentable, and makes you look relaxed (even if you’ve just been on your hands and knees scrubbing away at a stain thanks to one of your damn kids).
Most of them had two big pockets, too! I could keep tissues, keys, whatever! Even a piece of banana bread if I were visiting a neighbor and she offered me one. [
In those days, “banana bread” was code for “wine.”
]
Now, you always wore a bra and underpants underneath your duster. You may be indoors mostly, but there’s no reason to be goofy. Also, hey, we lived in Chicago, where the winters got so bad, you sometimes had to wear pants under your duster to stay warm. That look wasn’t so hot, I’ll admit. But who cares? You’re not supposed to feel sexy. The idea was to be comfortable. Do you come home from work and throw on sweats and a T-shirt when you know you’ll be in for the evening? Is that really any different? [
Whoa, take it down a notch, Miss Defensive.
]
Of course, Kathy would have you believe there was nothing else in my closet but muumuus. [
And one of my relatives in the clergy
.] But the most I’ve ever had was maybe five. That way I could wear one while another was in the wash. I tried real hard to find polyester or seersucker dusters, too, so I wouldn’t even have to iron them! [
Sorry, Planet Earth!
]
As much as I love dusters, however, I was self-conscious about going to the store in one, even when the store was right up the street. I guess I thought it looked a little too domestic, like maybe I was there not just to shop, but to clean the shelves as well. Because remember, your duster wasn’t always in great shape. Slipping out of one to put slacks and a jersey on was still pretty easy, though, so for an errand run I’d do that, and then as soon as the door to our house slammed shut behind me, it was back to the duster. But sometimes I’d be in the grocery aisle, and there’d be one of my neighbors, picking up a few items in her duster, and envy would set in.
“I wish I had those kind of guts,” I’d think to myself.
In the end, whether they’re around-the-house dusters or colorfully patterned muumuus like you see in Hawaii, they’re addictive. [
Calling Dr. Drew
.] My best friends Irene and Rae and I often say that at our ages now, we’d love to be able to go out in our dusters instead of having to get dressed. Really, I could live in them, you know? [
Imagine a world . . .
]
Well, I’ve got a bombshell for you, readers. Kathy has not only worn one a few times—when she’s been over and doesn’t want to wrinkle her fancy clothes just sitting around, in which case I give her a duster to put on temporarily—but she also recently said something kinda shocking.
Referring to one of my simple, nice cotton dusters, she said to me, “Gee Ma, something like this would be kinda nice around the house.” Excuse me, but isn’t this the same woman who likes to portray my muumuus as some stamp of lazy, crotchety fashion sense? If I’d only had my darned camera those times she wore one! Somebody at
In Touch
would be getting a package in the mail. [
Why not Pony Express or mule train while you’re at it?
]
See, I remember what it was like to go to the Groundlings and watch Kathy do a character based on me, wearing a muumuu and slippers and curlers. (And smoking, too. I never smoked! Where did that come from?) [
Breaking news: Every once in a while I exaggerate. Calling Nancy Grace.
] Of course, Kathy would never tell me when she’d taken a few from home for the act, and the first I’d know is sitting in the audience as she walked out onstage. If her uncle Maurice and aunt Mary knew how the nice muumuu they brought back from Hawaii was being portrayed, they’d have been furious!
And now we’re at “Gee Ma, something like this would be kinda nice around the house.” Has a nice ring, doesn’t it? [
Snap! In my FACE!
]
Well, well, well. If being ninety has taught me anything, it’s that the things you make fun of when you’re younger, you find yourself embracing later on. We’ve all said it. “Oh God, I’m getting to be like my mother.” Every girl’s fear.
Anybody want to bet that my daughter changes her tune about muumuus
completely
and starts wearing them within ten years? [
I’m wearing one now, and going commando.
] Of course, the kind she gets won’t be like mine. It’ll be very, very expensive, probably, and handcrafted by some big shot designer so that you can’t just throw it in the washer. Kathy will tell me how much she paid for it, and I’ll shake my head and probably faint because I’ve never spent more than $12 on one. Then they’ll become the rage, somebody will come up with a stupid name for them like mow-mows or moogly mooglies [
or an Hermès Birkin bag, but I digress
], and you’ll have to spend a fortune for one that already looks faded and dirty and filled with holes, and then some poor cute starlet will be caught wearing one without anything on underneath and in some compromising position. [
For God’s sake, Demi Lovato, zip up that muumuu!
]
Is nothing sacred? [
Nope.
]
One of my kids took this. Ha ha. But newspapers do keep you warm!