SASSY WAITRESS

Chapter One
It was day two of a two week run in Indiana and I was standing in the back of the room waiting to go up. The night before, while on stage, I’d gotten into it with an open mic guy who was sitting in the front row taking notes during my set. Which means he was stealing my jokes.

Yep, front row. At least sit in the back where I can’t see your dumb ass.

Also, I had to break up a fight between audience members because no one who worked at the club seemed at all interested in doing it. So, I said, to two big-ole hammered farm boys, “You, aren’t going anywhere. And, you, are not kicking anybody’s ass. Both of you sit down right now.”

And you know what they said? Nothing. They just sat down.

I have found that if you speak to an intoxicated man the way his mother would, he will immediately behave. I don’t recommend this if it’s someone you feel romantic about because it kinda sets a disturbing tone. However, if that’s your thing, then have at it.

So, as I stood watching the opening act being verbally pummeled by the audience, I decided that my life as a full-time road comic was finally approaching its end.

Never saw that coming.

But, after way too many years of slugging it out on the road, I was over it. Not stand-up, but definitely the lifestyle.

I’d grown weary of living out of a suitcase, driving all night to get to the next gig, sleeping in my car or some disgusting comedy condo and staying in shitty, scary motels. I no longer wanted to deal with drunks, rowdy audiences or idiots who only wanted to hear dick jokes and thought it perfectly civilized to yell, “Show us your tits!”

Who raised these people?

I was physically and emotionally worn out but didn’t realize, or maybe just didn’t want to acknowledge, how much until that very moment.

Plus, I was always broke.

Always.

Fuck!

I was so sick and tired of never having any money, fighting with my boyfriend because of it and worrying about how to pay my bills. And also, getting to choose between eating or putting gas in my car.

In case you were wondering, the whole “starving artist” thing is way more romantic when you’re talking about it over a big, fat, juicy steak as opposed to a pack of stale peanut butter crackers. Hence the F-word, followed by an exclamation point a few sentences ago. For the record, I don’t exclamation point lightly. But then again what lady does really?

The older I got, louder became the siren’s call of having a pot to piss in or two nickels to rub together.

Perhaps someday I’d even own my very own Frigidaire. “What must that be like?” I’d ponder yet dare not say aloud.

At twenty-two, I gave up any chance of normal by pledging my undying love for stand-up. I made my mom cry, burned the boats, plus all the other stuff you do to prove you ain’t fuckin around, and then headed off in my Canary yellow 1974 Ford Pinto to make the world laugh one comedy club, hotel lounge, and one-niter hell gig at a time.

Oh, and also to assuage some unspoken ache.

I am too good enough, you’ll see!

They never see.

In a nutshell: After several years of roaming around the country and not living anywhere, I moved to Los Angeles in my late twenty’s. Met my ex-boyfriend. We lived (out of wedlock, much to my mother’s chagrin) in a great apartment at the beach for about a year. He got a job offer in San Francisco. I dramatically refused to go.

I went.

We moved into an apartment in Tiburon. That’s in Marin County across the Golden Gate Bridge. We had an amazing view of the city and Alcatraz. Alcatraz sits in the middle of the Bay. There’s a light on top of the prison that goes around every six seconds warning ships that it’s there and so please don’t smash into it.

My boyfriend would sit on the couch and time the light as it went around. He’d say, visibly agitated, “It goes every 6 seconds. It’s making me crazy.”  I would respond, “Let’s not blame the light, shall we? How about you just go sit in that chair instead?” His job ended five years later and we returned to Southern California. Eight years later our relationship would follow suit.

Trigger-Happy

You know how sometimes something will happen that takes you back to a certain period in your life? A time that maybe wasn’t so great? And although you aren’t that person anymore, you react from that place in time? Suddenly you’re in the tenth grade again?

Yeah, me neither.

The other night I came home, turned on my computer and checked my Facebook page. There was a friend request from a seventeen-year-old girl who lives in Ohio. Now, when you’re a comic, this isn’t strange. People of all ages and walks of life Google you and want to be your friend, which couldn’t make me happier. Google away. Although, I do check out the profile first, and if there isn’t a picture of a burning cross or a Nazi violating a woman with a Swastika, welcome aboard.

So, I accepted the friend request and then went to her page and left a comment that said, “Hey”—just like I do to everyone. Then I went back to writing (aka playing Spider Solitaire).

A little while later, I checked my page again, and there was a comment from her that read, “Wow, do you have a program that automatically sends out a generic response? That’s pretty lame. Just a word of advice, that’s creepy. Blah, blah, blah. P.S. I’m really ironic and sarcastic.”

Creepy? Really kid? I’ll tell you what’s creepy: the fact that I’m on Facebook at my age. But hey, you contacted me.

So, I guess she had just sent it and I responded to quickly. I’m not sure. All I know is that I went into Heathers mode. I deleted my comment from her page. I deleted her comment from my page , and I blocked her from my site.

Hah! Take that! Let me show you how to be ironic and sarcastic, young lady.

So, hopefully this will teach her a lesson. And also cause her to develop an eating disorder. That might seem harsh, but that’s how you learn.

I do feel a little bad since she’s only had one year of experience behaving like a seventeen-year-old girl whilst I have had twenty-nine.

Please Pass The Porn

Most of my life I’ve been “one of the guys.” My choice. Because to be honest, it’s just more fun.

I remember being a kid playing at my cousin’s house; the girls were inside, the boys outside. Suddenly, I became very frustrated with the situation, and the voice inside my head started screaming. (Everyone hears voices in their head at seven years old, right?) It was screaming,”What’s wrong with you people? Why are we sitting in this room with these stupid dolls when we could be up in that tree, with them? Good grief, what a bunch of pussies!”

The voice didn’t really call them pussies, but seriously, how funny would it be if it had?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those women who don’t like other women. I have plenty of really cool girlfriends, but most of the time, you can find me hanging with my boys, gay or straight.

The downside to this is that I get stuck doing the dirty jobs that they would never have their girlfriends/wives/boyfriends/lovers/significant others do.

For example, I am the official “porn sweep” to four of my friends. That means if anything happens to them, I’m the person that has to go into their house first to clean out all of the porn so their family and loved ones don’t find it.

I guess they don’t want other people to know about their creepy, dark side after they’re dead. But apparently it’s perfectly okay if I do.

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