For weeks, there’s been a lot of construction on Jason’s (our?) street. It started at the beginning of January, me thinks and included fixing the sewer system (Where did the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles meet while they were clawing away with bulldozers? MYSTERIES ABOUND.) or something. I don’t know. All I know is that it was a colossal pain in the ass and it forced me to learn how to say “kiss my ass” in Spanish when the construction workers were all leering at me and laughing as I tried to back out of a driveway while being blocked by large machinery, a giant hose running across the sidewalk and lots of Atlanta’s finest wearing construction vests and hats and getting paid to throw their cigarette butts in Jason’s (our?) yard.

I did not like the construction. Not one little bit.

And I really didn’t like the construction when it involved blocking the driveway. One morning, the lead construction worker boss guy came and knocked on the door to tell me that they were going to have to dig right at the sidewalk in front of Jason’s (our? I DON’T KNOW) house and that once they started, I wouldn’t be able to get out of the driveway. I thanked him for telling me and promised that I would be leaving soon for work so he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Which is just what I did. For all the bitching and complaining I had been doing about them, they were very polite and waited until I had left the house before digging a MASSIVE hole right at the end of the driveway. When I came home from work, they were still digging, so I parked my car at a playground/rec center/soccer/baseball field just four houses down from us. It’s a cute little park and when the weather’s nice, that place is packed. It’s seriously like a minute walk from Jason’s and I’ve daydreamed about when the weather’s warmer, I can actually walk up and down these sidewalks and enjoy that little area.

So fast forward to this past Monday. The construction’s been done for a while, but they’ve been re-paving all of the sidewalks where they tore everything up for the new sewer lines. All of the sidewalks were done except for the last four houses on the street before reaching the park, starting with Jason’s (ours?). When I got home from work Monday, there were a couple of construction guys standing around. As I got out of the car, one came up to me and told me that he was going to be blocking our driveway the next morning to re-pave the sidewalk, starting around 7:30 in the morning. “Is it going to be a problem for you to move your cars? I just don’t want you to be blocked in,” he asked me. I assured him that he could do his job without worrying about blocking our cars in. We could arrange something.

Following me here? Are we all on the STORY TIME EXPRESS?!

So Tuesday morning comes and while I’m still asleep, Jason moves my car for me and parks it at the aforementioned playground. You know. The really cute one with the bright plastic slides and the swing sets. The one that I can see from the mailbox? Okay, that one.

I spend the day relaxing. Writing, reading, hoping that our next disc of “Dexter” will be in the mailbox, baking cookies, writing some more, discovering that “Dexter” did arrive and then watching it with Jason before he heads off to rehearsal. Basically, a day spent festering in my own laziness. I admit it. I was fucking lazy on Tuesday. And I was so lazy that I ignored the nagging gut instinct about my car. That maaaaybe I should go and get it. Maybe I should park it on the street in front of the driveway while the cement dries. Maybe I should relocate it to the already-finished sidewalk. I ignore the nagging feeling that says it might get towed.

So I send Jason a text around 8:30 or so that says “You think my car’s okay for the night or should I move it?” He tells me to go ahead and move it, so I grab a coat, my keys and put on my shoes.

It’s cool out and the street lights are on and if I’m being totally honest here, I’m feeling a little creeped out that it’s dark out and that I’m walking in the street because of the wet cement. I’m very aware of my surroundings and as I reach the corner, right in front of the playground, I notice my car under a streetlight. I pull my keys out and unlock it with the remote a couple of times before reaching the door.

And I don’t know what I noticed first. Did I notice the broken glass in my driver’s seat first, glinting in the lamp’s light first? Or did I realize that my feet weren’t crunching on gravel, but on shards of my driver’s side window? Was it the huge rock in the seat or my glove compartment hanging open that tipped me off? I remember feeling a surge of panic hit my chest and literally gasping, just like they always do in movies and books and television shows.

Someone broke into my car. My car. My little red Honda Civic. My baby Peter Honda.

I immediately started walking back to the house and called Jason, who was already on his way home. And then the rest of the night became a blur. He told me to call 911 and about twenty minutes after the “discovery”, I was told by one police officer that if nothing was stolen, a police report wasn’t going to help me because my insurance wouldn’t cover the damage. Jason drove my car back to the house, cleaning out all of the glass and covering the open window with a tarp and some dropcloths in case it rained. We went to sleep and I woke up with a hollow stomach, wondering how in the hell I was going to pay for the damage.

Someone broke into my car. It doesn’t sound like much when I type out those five little words, but I feel violated. I feel like someone has shown me complete disrespect. My car represents who I am in every single way. From the Obama sticker on the back to the Indiana Jones figurine in the glove compartment to the first pair of earrings Jason gave me in the console. Whoever did this, whoever smashed my car window and tried to drive off in it (judging by the scuffs on my ignition and the jimmied door lock), could see and learn everything there is to know about me in that car. I have pay stubs in the glove compartment, Pumas in the backseat, a notebook with the words “Opening Doors” on the front that I’ve written all of my stand-up material in. There’s a Bon Jovi CD and country mixes and a huge fake diamond ring and posters for the newest Sketchworks show in the backseat. And someone I don’t know has seen it all because they forced their way in.

Jason told me I would feel some trauma about it today. I kind of brushed it off because I didn’t think it would affect me that much. I mean, I wasn’t in the car. Nothing was stolen because I’m not stupid enough to leave anything valuable in there. I’m able to drive Tyler’s truck until I get my car fixed. But, I do feel it. I’m angry. I’m so, so angry that someone did this. That they just didn’t CARE. That they left my car smashed up and my glove compartment open for anyone to waltz right up and see. That they are able to walk away and not have to deal with the repercussions of it.

I don’t want this experience to make me cynical or to make the world seem untrustworthy, but it already is. Every noise outside makes me run to a window and double check that Tyler’s truck is still there. Every sound I heard while in the shower made my heart stop because What if they followed Jason and me back to the house and are going to break in here now? Every flicker of movement outside from the cat or falling leaves or the neighbor getting out of his car makes me nervous. And it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair that I have to feel this way because some asshole was looking for a credit card or a joyride in MY car.

And I’m not much of a damsel-in-distress kinda girl, but you would think when they saw the flower clipped on to my cellphone charger in the console, they would’ve thought Hey, maybe this person doesn’t deserve this after all.

I can only rely on karma. And as much as I want to say, “GOD IF IT’S NOT ONE THING, IT’S ANOTHER” or “Just my luck”, I can’t. Not honestly anyway. Because so far, I’ve had it pretty good. And I can’t let this one moment completely discourage me and make me feel like the world is a cruel, hateful place. I can’t keep blaming myself because I should’ve moved my car beforehand. As Jason said, “You shouldn’t have to WORRY about leaving your car somewhere.”

And he’s right. I shouldn’t have to worry about someone vandalizing my personal things. I shouldn’t have to worry about someone watching me leave the house so they can steal a computer or a TV or a wallet. I shouldn’t have to feel insecure and exposed and violated. But I do.

And I will for a long time.

I tried not to let the little things piss me off today. I really, really did. And I think I did okay. I think I smiled and laughed and had a good day despite customers throwing their money on the counter and then holding their hand out for the change.

I can not understand this. I don’t GET IT. It’s rude as hell, it’s so fucking impolite and really, can you not hold your precious Mr. Jackson until I finish bagging YOUR goddamn Colt 45? And then the way they toss it and don’t even notice my snatching it up off the counter and fumbling to pick up all the stupid pennies they added in. HEADS UP: If I see that you have quarters in your hand and you still count out your pennies and nickels FIRST? I will hunt you down and knock you upside the head with a sock full of coins and nasty ass pocket lint.

While I’m on a roll here, if I ask you “Hey, how’s it going?” the appropriate response is NOT “Half pint of Canadian Mist.” I do not get paid nearly enough to be treated like a slave and listen to you grunt and dig in your boobs to hand me wet money. I do not.

The liquor store has got me in a tizzy today, what can I say? I hate it. I say that a lot and sometimes I don’t mean it, but right now all I feel is hatred for that place. I hate that I know to hold my breath when certain customers come walking up because they will smell so awful I can not control what facial expressions I might be making. I hate that I have to be polite and smile at them when they tell me “I want the smallest bottle of Cuervo you’ve got! . . . no, not that one, the bigger one” and bite my lip so I don’t correct them. I hate that they all ask me “What’s your name?” and that I tell them DIANE and they say “Oh! You so pretty, you look like a Diane!”

. . . actually. That part’s kind of funny. So is pretending to answer the phone after another line has already picked it up and saying “Yeah and what the fuck do you want?” and watching co-workers react.

I’m burned out. I’m tired of going in there everyday and I’m tired of the politics in that place. Set aside the fact that it’s a liquor store for a second. As a “workplace”, it’s got a clusterfuck of annoyances. I’m tired of being the only co-worker who gets in trouble for being late, despite the fact that other employees constantly call in saying they had to stop at the grocery store or they had to stay late at school or they need to get some dinner first and then I’m the one who gets a nasty look when I say I can’t cover their shift, nope not even for five minutes.

PHEW. Well! I tried to be less negative about everything. I did. And I award myself full points for effort, because I’m just that kind of Diane.

In POSITIVE news (ie. the only news I WANT to hear or talk about until rainbows are shooting out of my ass), I have an audition tomorrow for a commercial. I’ve . . . never auditioned for a commercial before. I’m not so nervous, because it doesn’t include any lines, just physical comedy, including having shit splattered all over my face – WHOA. Wait a tic! Not actual shit, it’s not a commercial for the Freaky Fetish Channel aaaaand while it’s all awkward here and everything, did I need to clarify that? No? Awesome.

Anyway, I’m all about some physical comedy, folks so I’m excited about it. I’d really, really like to get it as it involves TRAVEL to an amazing, exotic locale where bronzed men shall fan me in the tropical climate and one that looks a lot like Hugo Stiglitz will whisper sweet nothings in my ear (what? FINE IT’S NEBRASKA, JESUS) aaaand it involves money (muhnay muhnay muhnay muhhhnay, MUHNAY). Like . . . a lot of money. To me anyway. Which at this juncture in my life could be that nasty ass wet $20 bill someone just threw on my counter and who am I to judge that sweet sweet government-made paper?

So. If you could keep your fingers crossed for me on THAT little tidbit, I would be evahhhh so grateful.

In not-related-in-anyway-shape-or-form-but-still-POSITIVE (like HIV hooyah! [not funny, I know]) news: I had a great Valentine’s Day. YAY WHO’S UPDATING ABOUT V-DAY ON THE 17TH?! I meant to write about it earlier, but I was too busy being a whiny bitch. I threw up some paper hearts (like on the walls, GOD, do you need clarification for EVERYTHING) and a shiny “Happy Valentine’s Day!” wall decoration and called it fun. We made crab legs and I made an awesome key lime pie (that I got ONE PIECE OF, so I had to make another one yesterday) and we watched a whole lot of “Dexter” because we have just discovered that blood splatter beast of a man and it was a good day.

HEY. While we’re on the topic of “Dexter”, I am way, WAY too emotionally vested in that show. Like, I experience a mild panic attack when Dexter has a close call. And I HATE Doakes who is a cocky piece of shit. I’m also currently seething with rage over this British bitch with the atrocious accent (dude, almost as bad as Daphne’s from “Frasier”), Lila, that Dexter meets at NA. . . . oh uhhh if you haven’t seen at least halfway through the second season of Dexter, you didn’t need to read that. HI. My name’s Sam and I spoil shit! But since I’ve said THAT much, I HATE HER. Oh my God, I hate her. And when Dexter spent the night at the hotel with her and then started sleeping with her and then she was calling while he was with Rita? Oh my God, I felt like Dexter had cheated on me! I got that same nauseous, homesick feeling I get when I’m really jealous and upset and it gave me bad dreams, seriously. We just finished the disc where she burns her house down and he has to go save her because she’s all jacked up on the CRAZY and the last image in my head of Dexter can NOT be her holding on to him begging to never be let go. UGH.

Although the sex scenes are really hot, I have to say. I just hate her and I feel like Dexter has just broken up with me and oh my God could you pass the shrimp and crab legs because this Dexter being based in Miami thing is wreaking havoc on my appetite and cravings.

PS. Speaking of cravings, today at work I ate a pickle-flavored chip. And while it was nowhere near as good as the Pringle’s pickle-flavored chips, it was okay. And then a co-worker had one and asked me if I was craving ice cream to go along with my pickle-flavored chips ha ha ha ISN’T HE FUNNY and then I got all shy because there was a time in elementary and middle school when I would come home and dip a pickle in a chocolate pudding Snak-Pak and call it a well-balanced meal.

Oh my God, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before. So cathartic.

Dear Diary,
I also feel all tingly and slobber all down my shirt when watching The Rolling Stones’ in the “Start Me Up” music video and even hearing about the alleged affair between Mick and David Bowie doesn’t turn me off from his gyrating in that video. THERE I SAID IT.
xoxo,
Diane.

Boy howdy. Do I know how to start a Monday off right or what? With a big ol’ dose of NEGATIVITY, I say! To hell with your chipper Positive Patty selves! It’s all about the bitching and the job-loathing right before you have to stamp your time card!

But sometimes, you just gotta let that shit out, you know? You can’t keep holding it in and feeling tension in your back and shoulders (or is that from hefting large cases of liquor?) and biting your lip so hard that your mouth fills with the taste of metal and then losing your mind over that final customer that just HAD to throw his money at you. And if writing about it makes me feel better, THAN BY GOLLY, that’s just what I’ll have to do!

‘Cause here’s the story (about a man named Brady!): All that complaining I did yesterday morning and all the moaning I did while getting ready for work did not stop me from having a good day. In fact, I had a pretty great day. I had a little talk on the way to work with myself (I also answer interview questions when alone in the car, too and yes I do like wearing the skin of dead humans, why do you ask?) about how the only way I can be in control of my life, in control of what influences me, in control of how I feel is to TAKE control. I know that sounds like the stupidest thing ever and obviously I was born under a rock, but I’m quite the ostrich when it comes to my problems. Oh hi, hole in the ground! I would LOVE to stick my head in you while all those problems just whiz on by! They probably won’t be back, hole, they always disappear!

That’s been my problem solving technique for a while now. And I’ve had it. I’m done with that hole. I’m done with ignoring all of my problems and stresses and worries until they come back to bite me in the ass, leave a huge welt and have me crying into a pillow for three days straight. I’m done with all of it. And it took a little talk to myself yesterday morning and remembering that Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent” and putting that into action. Because sometimes I ignore these issues and problems because I am a yellow-bellied coward and can’t handle a phone call to a debt collector or talking out a problem without feeling like I’m going to get yelled at. And I’m sure this has deeper roots and that all of our anxieties and freak-outs stem from somewhere, but I’m not so much worried about that. I’m just a tad worried about how it affects me NOW.

And in my car Monday morning, barreling down 675, I turned the radio off and I gave myself a lecture. Because I’ve listened to many, many lectures in my life from many, many people who were saying things I needed to hear, but what good has that ever done? It goes in one ear and straight out the other, every.single.time. Because no one wants to hear someone else tell you you’re a fuck-up. Sometimes you just need to tell yourself that.

And then I came home and I took care of one credit card completely. Done. It’s gone. Adios, debt hanging over my head! And it feels so good. It felt SO good to finally pick up that phone, call that number back and tell the girl (who was so fucking nice, I can’t believe I was so terrified) that I wanted to take care of this matter right now. And we did. And it’s done. And that means that I am so much closer to being debt free and not having that dark cloud looming over me. Because it’s not about having a spotless credit report to me. It’s about being able to sleep at night without that lingering guilt. It’s about being happy to hear my cellphone ring because it’s not a 1-800 number calling. It’s about being able to go see a movie and not feel immensely guilty for the $10 ticket I just bought. It’s about feeling free.

. . . ahem. I did NOT mean to get all dramatic there at the end and have an Oscar-winning soundtrack composed by John Williams echo in the background (although that would be cool as hell). I’m just trying to say that this is a BIG step for me. This is a big change and I feel like I’m taking some serious action. And if I could apply this action in other places, like my CAREER, who knows what could happen?

dundunDUNNNN. Don’t say I don’t give you people suspense for crying out loud.

And I think I am applying this action a bit. For one thing, back in January I manned up and paid the $50 to become a member of Atlanta Performs and sent in my headshot and resume to be considered for an audition spot at The Unified Auditions. Okay, just thinking about it gets me all excited. Because a LOT of people send off to audition for this and once you pay the fifty bones and email your stuff in, there’s no guarantee that you’re going to GET to audition. So when I got my acceptance letter a week ago (I’m technically an “alternate”, but my letter said all the alternates get seen), I was pretty fucking stoked. I still am! Even though preparing two monologues sends me into a blind sweat, I think it’s because every time I’ve done a monologue, I’ve done it with a huge lack of preparation. If I prepare and rehearse and get it DOWN, I know I’m going to blow their minds.

And hopefully, one of those 60 casting directors will want me in their play. At a professional theater. As in a PAYING theater. As in I WILL BE A PROFESSIONAL ACTOR, HOLY SHIT.

See? It’s all about taking some damn control. Some control over finances, some control over stress levels, some control over what I think. And from here on out it’s all positive thinking, baby.

Unless something really, really pisses me off. Like spraying Lysol after a particularly pungent customer who smelled like a rotting corpse stuffed in a coffin with a pack of lit Newport cigarettes. Who then coughs and licks his finger before handing me a nasty twenty dollar bill. Then and ONLY THEN are negative thoughts allowed.

It is dreary outside. It’s gray and rainy and eerily quiet and makes me wish I was in Seattle, having a cup of coffee with Frasier and Niles and Marty (Daphne is not invited, but Eddie is welcome!). I love this kind of weather. And I know I’m a giant weirdo for liking days without sunshine, but there’s something kind of . . . poetic? BARF. Maybe not poetic. There’s just something about this kind of day that inspires me and motivates me and makes me feel good.

Until I realize that I have to go to work. And because it’s rainy and because it’s Presidents’ Day, we’ll be busy. Because nobody else has ANYTHING TO DO on a wonderful, rainy day off from work than drink. GOD. That always just pisses me off. I get that people like to drink, I get it. I’m a person who likes to have a beer after a Sketchworks show or sip a glass of wine with Jason when we go out to dinner. But to sit in your house on a day off and drink vodka because BY GOD, you’ve got the TIME? That, I can not abide by.

Friday brought on a lot of snow. A LOT. Like, 3-4 inches I think. And I was at work. All day. My audition I had that afternoon was canceled and after a particularly hellish tech week, opening night for our show was canceled. SO. I spent the entire day in the liquor store where it took me two and a half hours to eat a six inch turkey sub for lunch. We were completely slammed, lines backed up, people asking a million questions and the snow falling at an alarmingly beautiful rate.

I was cranky, I was tired, I was pissed off and I was hating every damn person that walked in there and yelled at me, “WHAT’S IN A HOT TODDY?!” before leaving to enjoy the beautiful, rare snowfall by sitting on their ass and drinking whiskey right out of the bottle.

And then I had to go to a “loss prevention class” the store organized after my shift was over. Meaning, when 4 o’clock rolled around and I was ready to leave that bad bad place and never come back, I had to sit for two hours and listen to a guy go on and on about ways to tell a thief “Heyyyy, I saw that gin you put in your pocket. Would you like some grapefruit juice to go with that? Maybe some tonic water? HOW ABOUT A NICE FANCY RIDE IN A POLICE CAR?”

I was livid that I had to sit up there for two hours. Livid. I was trying to be respectful to the guy doing the whole thing, but when co-workers said to me “My! So enthusiastic!” when they had JUST gotten to work and were able to clock in and enjoy a meal SITTING DOWN while I had to keep ringing up assholes? I nearly earned myself my own fancy ride in a police car.

It didn’t help that when I finally left work, the roads were awful, people were driving like retarded zombies, bashing their heads into the steering wheel to make it go and I had to take Tyler home before I could go to Jason’s. And of course, everyone threw a massive fit that I wanted to drive in that shit to Jason’s house. And of course, this means I gave in, because my whole New Year’s Resolution about being less passive-aggressive is failing MISERABLY and ended up crying in the dark of my bedroom for a few minutes before succumbing to sleep at 9:00.

Point: I had a rough week. And it reared it’s big, ugly head on Friday.

It didn’t help that Saturday morning, the roads were absolutely awful and while they let us come into work late, we still had to come into work. Ohhh I was pissed. I was SO pissed. The fact that my little Civic, my little red Peter Honda was slipping all over the ice and that I had to wait for an accident to clear not even a mile away from the house was REALLY pissing me off. And THEN, we weren’t even busy. Noooo. So when the mid-shift cashier came in at 12, THEY SENT HER HOME. Nope, couldn’t send ME home even though I was there first, they sent the girl who JUST GOT HERE home. And then I learned that Friday night, when I had to work for 9.5 hours, they closed the store early. TWO HOURS EARLY.

I’m dealing with a lot of shit at ye olde liquor shoppe right now. I’m pretty angry most days that I’m in there and that’s no good. It’s negative energy in that place and I hate to sound all crunchy and granola and go all Suzanne Somers on your ass, but it’s true. There’s a lot going on within the store that I’m not comfortable sharing here, but it’s enough for me to say DAMN I AM PISSED OFF. I’m tired of people who are not my boss telling me what to do and I’m tired of everyone expecting me to stay late when someone calls in or to go the extra mile and do work outside of my job description because the person who is SUPPOSED to do it and who gets the SALARY for it is a bumbling, mouth-breathing idiot. I’m tired of getting in trouble for being late, but when I’m still waiting on my relief in the afternoons because they had to stop and get themselves something to EAT when they’ve had THE ENTIRE DAY TO DO THAT, nobody says anything. I’m tired of eating at my register, trying to get a bite of food in between customers and then have them ask me a million questions and oh by the way, your sandwich sure looks good, can I breathe my menthol cigarette breath all over it, is that a problem?

I’m really, really tired of all of it. And I’m not sure of how to fix it.

I love having my Tuesdays off. I really do. I like having the chance to do things while the rest of the world is at work. There’s never a line at the movies, I can always find a comfy chair at Barnes & Noble and someone’s always got a really cute baby in the store (I’m looking at you, Party City Lady). However, it also BLOWS. Because my schedule is like so: Work Monday, off Tuesday, work Wednesday to Saturday, off Sunday. I’m usually so burnt out from working four days in a row at the store that when Sunday comes, I just want to veg the fuck out. Then I have to work again Monday, which is usually a super slow day, but then Tuesday, I have to run all the errands I didn’t do Sunday and then whaddya know, back to work!

I think I’m just a little burnt out in general right now. We’re in Hell Week right now for the new Sketchworks show since we open Friday (hooooly shit!) and as always, it means late night rehearsals, stressful, exhausting days at work and then more late night rehearsals.

I tried to go get some costume pieces today, but I hit a brick wall pretty much. I got a few things at Party City, but could not find a short red wig (for my spoof on Miranda from “Sex and the City”) OR an old lady wig. I mean, what the fuck. It’s not like I was looking for a cavewoman wig and accessories (for which there was an ENTIRE WALL) or a “Fight Promoter” wig (come on, it’s Don King, we get it). I also wanted a toy blood pressure cuff, but all I could find were “sexy stethoscopes” with stupid hearts all over them, complete with a lacy garter. No wonder so many people hate Halloween. I know I’m playing a broken record that everyone’s heard of, but the whole “You can be sexy for Halloween!” just really gets me down. Maybe because I’m an actor, maybe ’cause I have a little dignity (I mean, a little, people) or maybe because I have an I-M-A-G-I-N-A-T-I-O-N, but I just can’t stomach that shit.

. . . where was I going with this? Oh, right. So I couldn’t find some big pieces I needed and then I had lunch with Jason and found a ten dollar copy of Groundhog Day at Best Buy and then dropped him off at work and then came back here and holy shit, it’s almost 4 o’clock already. WHERE DOES THE DAY GO?

I was also in court yesterday for a ticket I got back in November because my tag was expired by two weeks. It was reduced to a warning by the judge, blah blah blah, I just couldn’t believe what a clusterfuck that courtroom was. When we got there, there were at least 500 people standing in line to get IN to the court. And then I had to walk up a flight of stairs and find the courtroom I was needed in by my last name. Then I had to wait in line for 30 minutes, show my tag to a clerk and then sit down and wait for the judge to call me.

I know stupidity is pretty prevalent, no matter where you go, but it’s like they breed in that court room. People were asking the stupidest questions or getting in line without the necessary paperwork or couldn’t figure out what to plead on their damn case. Ridiculous. And then the judge said, “Does anybody need an interpreter? We have a Spanish interpreter, but let us know if you need someone to interpret another language!”

. . . right. Because if they do need an interpreter, THEY WOULD BE ABLE TO UNDERSTAND THAT QUESTION. God. It took everything I had to not say “Uhh . . . je ne sais pas? Francais, s’il vous plait?!”

In other news (I’m aware this entry is all over the place, SHUT YOUR FACE [that rhymed]), everyone’s still telling me how awesome I did with my stand-up. Which is wonderful to hear, you have no idea. Because I swear, part of the “performer” dream is, yes, because we like the attention. Anybody who disagrees with that is either not a performer or a BIG FAT LIAR and should have their panties hanging from a telephone wire. It’s not what performing is all about, no (at least, not for me), but nobody becomes a performer so they can sit in a dark room and act things out for themselves only. So yes, the praise is a great feeling. People telling me I’m a natural is a great feeling. The laughter was an enormously great feeling.

So why am I not itching to hop back on stage and try it again?

There are many levels to this and if I was cool and savvy, I would make a diagram, but woe, I am not. . . . okay. The real reason I’m not making a diagram is because my Microsoft office trial ran out which I had to download after Gateway fixed my broken computer last summer and didn’t bother to ask me whether or not I wanted my old hard drive ha ha ha woops and wouldn’t you know it I CAN’T FIND THE $90 MICROSOFT OFFICE CD I BOUGHT IN 2006.

Fuck it, I made one in Paint Shop Pro:

No, I didn’t. Because I’m lazy.

I was going somewhere with this . . .

I think a big part of the reason I’m not just itching to get on stage and do some stand-up again is because I’m afraid I’m not going to get that same high and feel that same magic that I did the first time. Which is always a problem in anything you break out and do, but because my dream is not to be a stand-up comedian, I feel like this fear is valid. I’ve never wanted to be a stand-up comic, I just wanted to give it a try. I want to be able to do everything, I don’t want to limit myself.

Another part is that I’m so burnt-out right now, I can’t even fathom getting prepared for another five minute gig. Because I wrote a lot last time and I really practiced and really worked hard. Right now, in the middle of tech week, I can’t get excited about anything except staying in bed all day.

And the more praise and responses I get about stand-up, the more Jason tells me to watch out. That people are going to start riding on my coat-tails and wanting to get involved in my stuff so that they can enjoy some success, too. I know, I know, I’m such an egotistical bitch, but that kind of shit happens every day in this industry. I’ve had several people add me on Facebook in the last few days that I’ve never met. I’ve had people who didn’t really include me in much before now want me to host shows with them. Should I be flattered that they see my talent now and want to work with me? Or should I be worried that they’re just trying to go along on the ride with me as pilot?

I don’t know. But, I will say that I am getting tired of people stealing my jokes and that’s another big reason why I’m not into the whole stand-up thing right now. It doesn’t matter when I say it or to whom, there is a person who has been repeating every one-liner I say to someone else with me RIGHT THERE and getting all the laughs and glory. I’m all about sharing ideas and brainstorming script changes, but when you just take something I thought up, something I said in passing that got a laugh and use it as your ticket to creativity? Well then, motherfucker, you just started a brand-new game.

This industry’s tough and full of some weasels, for sure. And I’m not even in LA yet.

*sniff sniff* Is that the . . . is that the smell of ABANDONMENT in here? Are those . . . my God. Are those BED SORES? Jesus.

Sometimes, no matter how much I want to write about something, it takes a while to JUST DO IT, even with Nike all up on my ass (What? Mid-90s references aren’t cool anymore? You’re so square). And sometimes, you THINK you hit “save draft”, but apparently you didn’t ’cause BYE BYE 800 word almost-finished entry! I hardly knew ye.

I was nervous about my stand-up debut. Really, really nervous. And I’m not gonna lie, it crossed my mind a few times to think up some vomiting story or whimper that my voice just up and ran away, what a bitch, guess I can’t do the show! As much material as I had written, I was still freaking out. I wasn’t sure which jokes I was going to use or how to fit them into my outline or if I was going over the time limit or if I was going to use notecards or EXPLODE.

So Tuesday morning, I woke up and did what I do best: dawdle. I read some crap on the internet and read all of the supportive Facebook comments about my impending (okay, I totally had to Google that ’cause I almost wrote impeding) performance. I thought about doing some laundry, but instead ate leftover pizza. And then I decided to take advantage of the PA system Jason had set up in the other room (with a stage and lights, too!) and rehearse. Which I did! For about ten minutes until I heard Jason walked through the door and got all embarrassed-like.

Don’t ask me why, okay? I always get embarrassed when people hear me rehearsing. I don’t even like to read my LINES out loud where people realize that I’m, oh my God, REHEARSING. Even in auditions where every other actor sits in the lobby with their script and practice their tears and jerky movements, I sit in the corner and obsessively reload Twitter. ‘Cause that @ebertchicago has got a LOT to say and I love it.

Jason took me out to breakfast and we discussed THE EVENT and I got all nervous and could barely eat my yogurt parfait without feeling like the granola and kiwi were slowly climbing back up my esophagus. Jason assured me that I would be great, I would be fine, STOP WITH THE GAGGING, JESUS and then we talked about the great Robin Williams and I felt a wee bit better.

When he dropped me off at the house so he could head back to work, I went straight to the stage, set up my video camera and hit it. I rehearsed all the material I had written for the night and when I checked the camera, I realized I had recorded TWENTY MINUTES of stand-up. Guys, that’s like a Comedy Central Special: Samantha Darby with “That’s the power of Pine-Sol, baby!” and MGD 64 commercials interrupting. That’s a lot of material for just five days worth of writing. On one hand: TOTALLY STOKED. Oh my GOD, I can write material. Holy SHIT. On the other hand: Oh Jesus, how am I going to pick out the best jokes for FIVE MINUTES.

I panicked, text messaged Jason who told me “Awesome! Now pick out the best jokes” and then started recording again. I did it about five more times before I decided, fuck it. I know what I’m going to talk about, I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing.

So that’s what I did! I threw my clothes for the big night in the wash, took a long shower, blow-dried (blew-dried?) my hair and then watched the first two episodes of “Modern Family” with Jason (I can not recommend that show enough!). I was fine! Totally calm, like a sailboat in the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean, a frosty Pina Colada next to an Emily Giffin book and Hugo Stiglitz lying on a towel (Badabang.org: We’re all about specifics here). But when Jason said “Okay! Let’s go!”, that boat crashed and everybody drowned and James Cameron didn’t even make a movie about it. I pooped my pants and thought, again, about canceling ’cause I’m not even funny, I’ve never wanted to do stand-up and what’s the big deal about performing anyway.

We picked up our friend Radar (for his Annual Night Out With The Dynamic Duo however, no lap dances this time around unlike my 21st birthday) and headed up to The Basement Theatre. The entire time, I sat in the back of Jason’s truck sweating a gallon of water a minute and trying not to focus on my phone because oh my God, I did not want to actually throw up, I just wanted to tell people I did so I didn’t have to get on stage.

After a stop at Fellini’s, where Jason recorded me having a meltdown, we headed to the theater. It was a really, really cool venue. Very intimate, with probably 50 seats (I don’t know, I’m a terrible estimator) and twinkling lights and a brick wall background and a bare stage with a stool and microphone. They had a full bar and more drink and candy choices than a movie theater. I would’ve totally taken advantage of all that, but when you think you might piss your pants and puke all over your favorite cardigan, you bypass the Cherry Coke Zero and chocolate bars.

Jason set up my camera’s tripod and got his camera out, while I sat across the aisle and tried to not create a huge hole in the floor from my adrenaline-fueled clogging session in my right foot. And then . . . and then the show began.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about the other comics. I laughed a lot, yes. And then got really nervous that I was NOT funny. And then two girls went up and they were funny and I totally lost my confidence ’cause I thought Well hey, even if you’re not funny, at least you’ll be the only girl so they’ll try and laugh at SOME of your stuff.. And then they called my fucking name.

Guys. I was nervous. My palms were sweating, there was vomit on my sweater already, Mom’s spaghetti (What? Oh Jesus, a little Eminem never hurt anybody!). My legs were shaking so hard as Jason helped me down the steps. YES, helped me! ‘Cause if he wasn’t there to lead me down, I know my knees would’ve given out and I would’ve fallen to the ground like a noodle and died. Also, I was wearing pants that are super low and sometimes show my ass crack OR my lacy thong (and yes I DO have two settings: Classy and Classier) and I was afraid to pull them up and have everyone SEE me Al Bundy-ing my pants, but if I didn’t, everyone would think my name was Trixie BoomBoom and that I had a butterfly tattoo just a few inches higher.

SO. When Skip, the host, called my name, he mentioned to everybody that this was my first time doing stand-up and they needed to show me some love. And oh my God, did they ever. They were clapping and whistling and grinning and hollering and I could hear Jason screaming “WOOO!” and I felt like a million bucks already. I grabbed the mic, took a deep breath and I did it.

And I brought that damn house DOWN.

They were laughing. I mean, laughing! I couldn’t see anyone past the second row, but everybody I did see had a huge grin on their face. They were clapping in the middle of my jokes, laughing harder at little random one-liners I added in and the best part? I felt good about it. I felt like I was doing something really awesome, creating something really great. I was generating laughter! I was making people smile and hold their bellies and applaud and applaud and applaud. And my five minutes were over SO soon and then it was done. When I walked off stage, everyone was still laughing and clapping, my ears ringing with love. A couple of the comics shook my hand and told me how great it was as I was walking back to my seat and then Radar gave me a huge hug and when I finally reached Jason, he gave me a huge kiss and sat next to me, grinning ear-to-ear.

The rest of the night went in a blur as people congratulated me and one couple told me I was their favorite comic of the night (I’m just going to bask in that one for ohhh . . . say, the next thousand years or so). Nobody could believe it was my first time doing stand-up and they made me feel really, really amazing.

And the aftermath has been incredible. People I don’t even know sending me friend requests on Facebook because they saw my video on someone else’s page. Everyone’s loving it, supporting me and Jason’s been telling everyone he meets to watch it (sidenote: Is he not the most supportive guy EVER. I mean, really. I’m the luckiest girl). People are telling me I’m a natural, that it was amazing to watch, that I’m so brave for doing it and all I can do is squeal.

Because I did it. I performed a stand-up routine that was a solid smash hit. And I wrote my own material and I rehearsed and I didn’t fake an illness to get out of it. I broke out of my comfort zone and I did something that I’ll remember forever. I’m so proud of myself. Like Lucille Ball once said, “I’m not funny. What I am is brave.” I concur, Lucy. I concur.

(OMG, FYI NSFW BTW)

Last Tuesday, Jason and I went to an open-mic stand-up comedy . . . thing . . . at Village Theatre in Decatur. Our friend Cris was hosting the show and there was about 11 stand-up comics there, each getting 5 minutes of stand-up time.

Aaaand . . . I wasn’t all that impressed. Is that bad? Maybe I shouldn’t say that. I was impressed that they had the balls to get up there, but I was not impressed by the two I saw getting high outside the theater or the one that made fun of the audience when he ran out of material. Heads Up: Don’t make fun of the people who paid 10 bucks to come watch your sorry ass on stage.

Ahem. Not that they were all bad. And nor were they really crappy or anything. I know people have off nights, I know that sometimes the demographic isn’t right for your brand of comedy, I get it. But, it did fire something else up inside of me. It made me want to do my own stand-up.

Jason’s been telling me for a while now that I should write some stand-up. I didn’t think I could, I told him that I was only funny in conversation, not necessarily on stage in front of people trying to be funny. Although I did it in high school and had a great time and found success in it, I just didn’t want to do it now. Lost my confidence, I guess.

But after the last comic walked off stage Tuesday night and they thanked us for coming, I turned to Jason and said “Dude. I could totally do this.” And he said, “Hell yeah, you can!”

The next morning, on my way to work, I text messaged Cris and told him that I was going to start writing my own material and I was really stoked about it. “Yeah! That’s awesome! Wanna sign up for the next open-mic?” I freaked out for a second and then said YES! February 23rd is far, far away! I’ll have plenty of funny shit by then!

And then? Then, I went to rehearsal and saw Cris. He tells me “There’s an open-mic next Tuesday, the 5th at another theater. Wanna go?” And the part of my brain that is not occupied by “I Love Lucy” quotes or old episodes of “Frasier” on loop said HEY YEAH LET’S DO IT, LESS THAN A WEEK TO GET A ROUTINE TOGETHER WOO. And then I had to have my stomach pumped because all of that adrenaline had NOWHERE ELSE TO GO.

The thing is, I’m terrified. I’m absolutely terrified. One minute, I feel like my routine is solid gold and I imagine the audience wiping away tears of laughter and doubling over to hold their stomachs and I imagine them Googling me when they get home so they can see my next show. But then, the next minute I’m hearing crickets after every joke, watching Jason and all of my friends and my parents lower their heads and lie to me about how funny I was. “Maybe we weren’t laughing, but we sure were smiling a lot!”, they’ll say.

But the other thing is, I’m stoked. I’m completely beside myself with this. Part of me remembers the HIGH I had when I did it in high school and part of me is just excited to do it. To say that I performed stand-up. That I wrote my own material, created my own characters, that I was confident in it, that I felt good about it, no matter what.

Of course I want them to laugh. And I hope they don’t write about how unimpressed they were by me on their journals. But even if they do, I really don’t think I’ll care all that much. Because right now, at this very second, I feel like I’ve written enough material to make people howl with laughter and that’s all I need to propel myself up on that stage without pooping my pants.

So, I had been working on my stuff all week when I realized that Henry Winkler was going to be at the World of Wheels (or Redneck Convention, whatever) in Atlanta from Friday-Sunday.

I guess not too many people know this, but . . . I’m obsessed with Henry Winkler. My first crush, at 8 years old, was on The Fonz. “Happy Days” ended four years before I was born, but I was hooked on those Nick@Nite reruns. I was completely, 100% in love.

Exactly four years ago today, February 1, 2006, Henry signed a headshot as a request from my dad and sent it to me. I immediately had it framed and placed it on my bedside table. He wrote “Lovely Sam, Act your heart out like your life depends on it, but it really doesn’t! Love! Henry Winkler”.

Lemme tell you a little somethin’ somethin’. When the going gets tough, and boy, does it get tough, I often look at that picture and think about what he wrote. And I’m seriously restored. I know, you didn’t come here for all that CHEESE, but it’s true. It was such a wonderful, lovely, heart-warming thing for him to write and it has pulled me out of many a slump. When I heard he was going to be in town, I knew I needed to go see him.

On March 11th, 2008, I wrote:

I don’t know how many people know about my deep love/admiration for all things “Happy Days”, but I’m also highly in love with Henry Winkler, both as the Fonz and himself. I actually have a framed photo of him on my bedside table. He wrote on it “Lovely Sam, act your heart out like your life depends on it, but it really doesn’t! LOVE, Henry”. He’s the most amazing person, I think. I hope to meet him some day and tell him what an inspiration he is to me and how everytime I look at his photo, I’m re-motivated.

So when I realized that the picture he sent me was almost 4 years to the day that he was going to be in Atlanta, I haaaad to go. I grabbed the picture, grabbed The Fonz book I bought at the flea market and headed to the Georgia World Congress Center with Dad.

I can’t even explain the way I felt seeing him standing up on that platform in his bright orange sweater. Behind him was a table full of pictures to buy and sign (it did cost 20 bucks to get a picture taken and 20 bucks to get something signed, plus side: no line!) and a motorcycle. There was a huge red banner that said MEET HENRY WINKLER, THE FONZ ON TV’S HAPPY DAYS and a girl taking everyone’s pictures.

We stood in line for about 5 seconds when he turned to me as I was walking up the steps. “Hi, what’s your name?” He asked me, grinning. “Samantha,” I stuttered. He smiled and said “I’m Henry” and I had to hold everything together to not scream I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AHHHH!! and die. I pulled out my picture and said “Okay, so, four years ago, my dad sent you a request for an autograph to give me. And this is what you wrote.” I held the picture out to him and he took it and said “Yes, I did write this . . .” and I said, “I just want you to know that I’m going to be an actor. And anytime I’ve gotten a little discouraged or needed motivation, I’ve looked at this and it’s brought great comfort to me.”

He smiled at me and said “That’s fantastic,” before pulling me in for a big hug and kiss.

GUYS. THE FONZ KISSED ME.

And then the girl took our picture and I handed him my book to sign. He signed it, listened to my dad go on and on about what a thrill it was for me and then went to the next fan. When I looked in the book to see what he wrote, my eyes teared up and my heart nearly burst.

“Your dream is perfect. -Henry Winkler”

Guys. My dream is perfect. And I’m going to do my stand-up like my life depends on it, but it really doesn’t.

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