I managed to professionally One Girl One Tub this week for myself. (If you do not get this reference, do yourself a huge favor and remain blissfully ignorant. If you're the have-to-know type, you've been warned and I am absolved.)
I may or may have not mentioned a comedy thing in which I dabble. I don't want to elaborate too much more but there was a show in February and a pretty established comic was a part. Apparently, I left some sort of impression (only fat angel babies know how because that show was just a train wreck) with the headliner because he invited me to perform at his venue the following month! He teases me about being just as sexy at his show as I was at this one and then say I could wear a burlap sac and Chewbacca mask and not only would I be sexy, I'd be funny.
WHAT. No, but...WHAT.
Of course, I say yes!!
Then he cuts me because he accidentally double booked another comic. No biggie.
THEN he tells me to come ANYWAY because it will force the venue to increase his budget!
I'm excited (read: fucking pants-shitting terrified).
The day comes, the venue is 1.5 hours from my home. I say bye to my kids, my son gives me a hug and vomits all over me. ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIIKIKIKIKIKIKDDDDDDING. ME. RIIIIIIGGGGHT NAAAAAAAO!??!?!?!
Who is writing my life script, Larry Fucking David, that prick??
I clench my thumb so as not to join him and haul my barfed ass to the loo. I shed my new Trump colored outfit for my more natural mocha color and then rip about three layers of that off. Shockingly, hair and makeup remained untouched, although I probably smell like an inverted 5th grader.
I put on the backup outfit, glance at the phone and figure if we go 85 and don't hit any old ladies (fuck the young ones; they're rubbery), we may still make it.
Off we go after an AIR KISS to my son letting him know I'm not mad and nothing is his fault. Sha, as if.
We catch air when we hit the highway ramp but since we aren't the Dukes Of Fucking Hazzard, we lose a fuckton of it upon landing.
A ....A MUDDAFUGGERING FLAT TIRE?!?! I WILL WALK ARE YOU KIDDING WHY DO YOU HATE ME JUST THROW UP ON ME AGAIN.
With trembling hands, I text the guy to let him know about this teeeenyweeenie setback and how I may, heh...actually be an hour late and I'm sorry but we are on the road (I'll send a pic?) and should we come?
...
...
...
"Don't bother."
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
And then, I was supposed to go to a show to scout for talent but instead I had a multimillion dollar panic attack and couldn't even leave my fucking bedroom and was in hysterics. Why? Because I'd planned my outfit (helps me feel in control) and forgot I'd lost another 5 fucking pounds so it looked grisly and there was nothing I could do to repair it.
The April show will have 1 fucking comic. AWESOME.
I may or may have not mentioned a comedy thing in which I dabble. I don't want to elaborate too much more but there was a show in February and a pretty established comic was a part. Apparently, I left some sort of impression (only fat angel babies know how because that show was just a train wreck) with the headliner because he invited me to perform at his venue the following month! He teases me about being just as sexy at his show as I was at this one and then say I could wear a burlap sac and Chewbacca mask and not only would I be sexy, I'd be funny.
WHAT. No, but...WHAT.
Of course, I say yes!!
Then he cuts me because he accidentally double booked another comic. No biggie.
THEN he tells me to come ANYWAY because it will force the venue to increase his budget!
I'm excited (read: fucking pants-shitting terrified).
The day comes, the venue is 1.5 hours from my home. I say bye to my kids, my son gives me a hug and vomits all over me. ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIIKIKIKIKIKIKDDDDDDING. ME. RIIIIIIGGGGHT NAAAAAAAO!??!?!?!
Who is writing my life script, Larry Fucking David, that prick??
I clench my thumb so as not to join him and haul my barfed ass to the loo. I shed my new Trump colored outfit for my more natural mocha color and then rip about three layers of that off. Shockingly, hair and makeup remained untouched, although I probably smell like an inverted 5th grader.
I put on the backup outfit, glance at the phone and figure if we go 85 and don't hit any old ladies (fuck the young ones; they're rubbery), we may still make it.
Off we go after an AIR KISS to my son letting him know I'm not mad and nothing is his fault. Sha, as if.
We catch air when we hit the highway ramp but since we aren't the Dukes Of Fucking Hazzard, we lose a fuckton of it upon landing.
A ....A MUDDAFUGGERING FLAT TIRE?!?! I WILL WALK ARE YOU KIDDING WHY DO YOU HATE ME JUST THROW UP ON ME AGAIN.
With trembling hands, I text the guy to let him know about this teeeenyweeenie setback and how I may, heh...actually be an hour late and I'm sorry but we are on the road (I'll send a pic?) and should we come?
...
...
...
"Don't bother."
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
And then, I was supposed to go to a show to scout for talent but instead I had a multimillion dollar panic attack and couldn't even leave my fucking bedroom and was in hysterics. Why? Because I'd planned my outfit (helps me feel in control) and forgot I'd lost another 5 fucking pounds so it looked grisly and there was nothing I could do to repair it.
The April show will have 1 fucking comic. AWESOME.
