Late Night Writing – Read at Own Risk

I’m having one of those nights where I feel like writing. I’m not necessarily sure I have anything to write about, but why the hell not? I have fingers perfectly capable of typing, a laptop perfectly capable of receiving said typing and turning it into words on my screen and a half empty bottle of Merlot. (The other half already being in my tummy of course.) All of these things obviously add up to being primed and ready to write. I mean look at me go…I’ve already been writing for a solid minute now and I think it’s going fairly well.

I was flipping channels and saw America’s Next Top Model listed earlier. I switched over to it, but then once I remembered it was a real show and it wasn’t going to be Maya Rudolph doing her Tyra Banks impression I got really depressed. Then I realized what was happening on the show and it made me feel better. They are doing a season called America’s Next Top Model “All Stars”. Apparently on reality TV when you lose at something you become an all star. This season is made up of girls who have already tried doing the show before, and lost. Some of them seem fairly normal, well as normal as you can be to be a contestant on a competition based reality show. But most of them just seem to be the really loud ghetto girls who yelled at everyone because they didn’t “reck-a-nize”. So thank you Tyra Banks for showing us that no matter how illiterate you may be, or how un-classy you may act, or how badly you may lose at something; anyone can be an all star. And I do mean anyone.

Ok, there is either a skunk outside my apartment or Cheech and Chong are sparking up some skunk weed under my couch right now because I just caught a strong whiff of one of the two things. Everyone cross your fingers for Cheech and Chong.

I decided today that I would go through the giant box which has not been touched since it got put in the corner the day I moved in after moving here from New York. It’s that box of things that you really don’t have a need for, but you keep anyways. You know what I’m talking about – when you’re moving or cleaning and you just keep finding boxes inside of boxes inside of boxes which you tell yourself you will look through next time…but you never do. Well today I did. And I am beyond glad that I did. One of the boxes contained around a dozen cassette tapes of radio mixes I did when I was younger. They are all titled either DJ Amy Hot Jams or DJ Aim-Dog Jazzy Jams. I can’t say I’m partial to one title or the other, because they’re both obviously brilliant. These tapes contain the best pop mixes from the 90’s and very early 2000’s you will ever hear in your life. I’m talking everything from Boyz II Men to Brandy to All 4 One to Robyn to Mya. Mya! Come on now, if you didn’t know every word to ‘Ghetto Superstar’ including Ole Dirty Bastard’s part then I don’t know that we could ever be friends. I for one, as a 12 year old white girl living in the suburbs, totally owned the ODB parts as you can probably imagine. I really need to find a cassette tape player now though. These tapes are just sitting there taunting me. Now that I know of their existence in my apartment I need to listen to them.  I can’t talk about this anymore…the sweet, sweet sounds of Shaggy and TLC are ringing in my ears and it’s too much to handle.

While looking through these boxes I also discovered a hard copy of the script I wrote when I was probably around 10 or 11 years old. In my post “Back to School” I speak of how I tried to cast this movie during classes at my elementary school. It didn’t go so hot. But I haven’t read this script in years. As soon as I found it today I sat right down with a cup of coffee and started reading. As I read I realized from a young age I was meant to be a comedian. Either that or a crack head. It was quite clear to me. It also became clear that the above mentioned pop artists had a great impact on my life because every single character in my movie was named after a 90’s pop star. Except for 3 characters named Peppy, Poppy, and Pappy. Correct, I was great with names. It also included Barbara Walters, a bomb scare, saving stuffed animals from a fire, a who-done-it murder plotline, two old British sisters who were always bickering and an astonishingly unprepared police staff. I would say it all makes sense once you read it, but that would be a lie.

I went for a hike at Runyon Canyon today and remembered just how much I hate how everyone does the little smile and nod at strangers when you’re hiking. Why is it that people feel the need to do that when on any type of walking trail or path? Just because we are walking through a pretty little canyon doesn’t mean I want to say hello with a close mouthed half smile and a “I don’t know you so instead of speaking the word hello I will just politely nod”, head nod. I avoid eye contact at all times with strangers. I’m that person who always somehow manages to get into weird and awkward staring contests unknowingly. So I just avoid it all together. When I do end up accidently making eye contact it always ends up being with the homeless guy standing a foot from my car staring directly into my eyes as I roll up my window and pretend not to see him and look away. (Keep in mind I drive a convertible so rolling the window up doesn’t seem to dissuade them much.) So I don’t care if we are on a walking trail where everyone else got shot up with the happy drug and feels the need to say hi to everyone or if we are on the street walking through West Hollywood trying to avoid the creepy guy playing Spiderman on Hollywood Blvd. Either way, I will be wearing sunglasses and avoiding your face at all costs.

It’s now after 2am which means everything on TV is infomercials, 90’s sitcoms, or religious shows. So I can keep rambling incessantly here, purchase a miracle weight loss pill from an 800 number, watch Married With Children, or be reborn with the salt and pepper haired gentleman who hosts the 700 Club. All options sound quite tempting but I think I’ll throw a curve ball in here and just finish the rest of this Merlot in bed until I fall asleep or decide to get more Merlot. I know you are all probably concerned because if I am already cozy in bed, traveling back to the kitchen could be quite a nuisance to get more wine. No need to fret, I keep emergency sleepy time wine under the bed. I’m no amateur.

Good night and good luck. (Good night is directed towards you, the reader, and good luck is directed towards me in case you were wondering. I have white sheets so the Merlot is always a little risky. I need the luck more than you.  Deal with it.)

 

Back to School

With all the back to school commercials and specials going on it makes me think back to when I was in school. Without realizing it at the time, school helped make me the person I am today. I never thought I would say that when I was younger, but it’s true. It molded and guided me to the person I have become. Don’t get me wrong though. I’m not talking about all the “studying” and “hard work”. I’m talking more about the day to day shenanigans which prepared me for a life of entertaining people. Also because of my general lack of concern for my overall safety and of those around me.

Gym Class:

Gym was always fun. I was athletic, I played sports, I could run forever and yet I still refused to participate in most activities. Because I was a strong athlete at my school, gym teachers initially thought I would be one of the good ones who would always step up to show a good example. Turned out I was more the one who would step up to show a bad example just because I thought it would be more beneficial to the overall feeling of the class. See, I knew I would be getting my exercise after school at soccer. So gym was more or less a time to wear ridiculous outfits from the 80’s I found at thrift stores and drive my gym teachers crazy. It has been scientifically proven that laughter extends life and burns calories. So when all of the fat kids who refused to participate would sit down in protest, I would step up to the plate. Sometimes I would break out in interpretive dance during badminton to express my deep emotional connection to the game. Other times I would swing like an ape from the climbing rope from side to side in the gym yelling to the gym teachers, “This monkey wants a banana!” I was doing my small part in making America healthier. You don’t want to run with the rest of us? No problem! I will make sure you at least have an entertaining class and burn a couple hundred calories. Obese America: You’re welcome.

English and Social Studies Classes:

My favorite classes in school were probably English and Social Studies. I mean out of the real classes obviously. Art and gym were clear winners overall, but out of the core subjects I’d go with English or Social Studies. English was always fun for me because I loved writing. Granted, I never actually wrote what they asked me to, but I loved it. Keep in mind I’m talking about elementary school right now. Also, it’s not like I totally disregarded the directions. For example if we had to do a book report on assigned reading: I would do a book report, but I would do it on a book I wanted to read. If the assigned reading was of no interest to me I deemed it beneath me. I had better things to read. So it would be a little confusing for the teacher when they would assign a book about climbing to the top of Mount Everest and my report was about Mia Hamm in her North Carolina Tarheel Days. I always did the assignment on time, but I would do it my way. If a teacher didn’t like the subject I chose I would eventually have to cave and do their report. But I wouldn’t go down without a fight. So when it was a typed report I would turn it in with the smallest possible font. This would then make the teacher ask for me to make it bigger and bring it back in. This would then make me go home and change it to the largest possible font. This then lead to a dangerously high blood pressure for every teacher I had.

I also loved Social Studies because I really like history, mainly American history. I also liked learning about the English because come on, who doesn’t love a British accent? So basically if you were an English speaking land, I liked you and your history. My bread and butter was when they would assign projects where they allowed creativity; when they would give you a list of different ways to present. My favorites were always dioramas or presenting a report as like a character from that time period. I would always give it a modern twist too though. So if I was giving a report on The Revolutionary War I would be Paul Revere telling everyone the British were coming, but instead of acting like I was riding in on a horse I would act like I was riding in on a motorcycle, or dancing to the Backstreet Boys. Or on the Civil War, instead of trying to free the slaves through battle we were trying to free the baby lions from the zoo through luring them out with enticing cheerleader moves and chants. This gave it a certain flair I thought.

Currently Holding Casting Calls:

I was 10 when I wrote my first movie. It was a “who-done-it” comedy taking place partially in a school and then back at an old haunted mansion. It was called “The Bomb Scare Killer” and I decided I needed to cast it immediately. Problem was; I just didn’t have the time. After school I always had soccer practice or was busy playing “Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen” with my best friend. The schedule of a 10 year old is exhausting. I was also working on my sketch comedy videos. They consisted of me and my two best friends basically looking like 10 year old crack heads wearing wigs with ADHD attempting Saturday Night Live. So with such a busy and fabulous lifestyle, it was hard to find time to cast my movie. I was in the cafeteria one day overseeing a trade between two kids of a peanut butter sandwich for a bag of chips. (I was kind of the food trading bookie in elementary school. Obviously you can see I was meant for big things at an early age. Very entrepreneurial.) That’s when it hit me. Our cafeteria was perfect for casting. It was one of those cafeteria’s that also had a stage on one end. I could have my choice of 300 tables to set up at and watch the auditions on the stage. So I got right to work and started spreading the word about auditions to friends and other students. Once they were scheduled they were advised to “need to go to the nurse’s office for a head ache” at that time and meet me in the cafeteria. I snuck out of class for my first audition and was feeling pretty damn good if I do say so. I set up with my script in the cafeteria and waited. But soon found my appointment had bailed. If you’re not willing to skip out on class for an audition, what good are you at life? I was disgusted, and was about to pack up everything when a hall monitor came in. I was all alone, sitting on 4 stacked chairs, (because I thought it looked more authoritative if I was up high) had scripts spread all over the table, a mini Harlem Globe Trotters megaphone for directing, was wearing a beret, had a mug of water which I pretended was coffee and a directors chop block. Granted, I was very good from a young age at talking my way out of situations but I didn’t see a way out of this one. So when the principal asked me what I was doing I simply tried to bargain. I offered her a role in the movie if she let me go with a warning. I found this to be an extremely kind offer. She was not the best looking and I am sure would have been very stiff in front of camera. I needed beautiful actors, not ugly failed college professors. As kind as I thought the offer was; shockingly she declined. I was also in a whole other world of trouble seeing as how I was in a school, casting a movie, called The Bomb Scare Killer. They seemed to frown upon that. So my directing career had to be put on a bit of a hold. While I was in trouble and not able to cast or do my sketch comedy I decided I should reflect on my actions as they had asked I do. They wanted me to think about what I had done and learn from it. Which I did. If I was going to shoot a movie at school it needed to be less risqué and not involve the words “bomb scare”. So I wrote a new movie about a group of upper middle class white kids in a rollerblading gang loosely based on my own life, of course. This later became a musical complete with dance numbers and a score full of nothing but Britney Spears songs. I never did get to film it though. It’s a shame, because as you can see from this brief description, it was obviously dripping in brilliance. It could have been our generation’s West Side Story.

 

If you are a former teacher of mine reading this, you don’t even need to say it. I’ll be the bigger person here and step up and just say what needs to be said to you…You are all very, very welcome.

 

My First Job (con’t) The Adventures of Amy and JoJo

A few disclaimers to begin: If you have not read my entry “My First Job”, you will not understand a lot of this. Also as much as you may be led to believe it by the title; this is not a story about cartoon characters named Amy and JoJo. We are real people. Thank you for your time.

Last time I spoke of Byrne Dairy and my first job I had told you about my buddy Scruffy Tubs. I think it is appropriate we start this off with a good Tubs story. There were two restrooms in the store, both single stall, one for men and one for women. When the women’s was out of order we were obviously forced to use the men’s. When I was in there one time I noticed the paper towel dispenser was missing and instead there was just a giant gaping hole in the wall. If you are thinking Scruffy Tubs may have something to do with this, you are correct. I came out and asked Hot Boss what had happened. Hot Boss turns into a 12 year old girl sometimes with giggle fits and this was one of those times. (Quite Anderson Cooper-esque) He shuffled me into the back room giggling and then proceeded to tell me what happened.  Scruffy Tubs was in the bathroom and there was no one in the store other than him and Hot Boss. All of a sudden Hot Boss heard a crashing sound and Tubs screaming and groaning. Then he heard nothing for a couple minutes, then some more groaning and now swearing. Soon, Scruffy came around the corner from the restrooms with that look that your dog gives you when they have just come from eating your shoe or pissing all over your carpet. With his tail between his legs Scruffy Tubs said, “So, uh, boss. Uh, I um, da paper towel dispensa, uh well it’s not in da wall no mo’. See, da floor was wet and I uh, well I slipped and da paper towel dispensa broke my fall. But then it came outta da wall and then I kept fallin. And then it fell on top a me. So there’s no mo’ paper towel dispensa.” After hearing this, if I was having a bad day I would just walk past the rest room to remind myself of such a glorious story and it was an immediate pick me up.

JoJo and I were becoming better and better friends and we started hanging out outside of work. We were tired of only sharing experiences such as Tubs mooning us or Witchcraft trying to put a spell on us. Or the crazy mom of the group, who I affectionately referred to last time as Pecan Glasses (Due to her smearing pecan ice cream all over her glasses and still wearing them) telling us we shouldn’t be drinking beer in the cooler.  So we began setting out on our own adventures which normally consisted of us crashing someone’s party, creating our own party, stealing beer and dressing in Mexican ponchos and sombreros of course. One specific experience comes to mind right away. JoJo and I had enjoyed one of our normal evenings of going to a party and mooching off of everyone before going back to my house. We decided we weren’t done for the evening and wanted to have a camp fire. We had a fire pit in my back yard and were all about continuing drinking and lighting that bitch up. The problem being; neither of us could make a fire that lasted more than 30 seconds. If we were lost in the woods together I would give us roughly a day and a half before death occurs. We would build up the logs and toss a match or two in and then some news paper but it just would never catch. So being the drunken resourceful little thinker that I am, I went inside and grabbed anything I could find in an aerosol can that said “Highly Flammable”. When I came back out I just started spraying everything in the fire pit with said cans, took another sip of beer, prayed to the fire gods, and then tossed a match in. It basically created 4 seconds of massive flames which tried attacking my face and then went back to nothing. Fail. But after some perseverance, another 6 pack between us, and some more flammable liquids we finally had a fire going.

We were sitting on a picnic bench with our backs to the fire having a few drinks. All I can really say about what happened next is that gravity and I were just not on the same page that night.  Gravity won. To be fair, gravity had a 12 pack on its side working against me as well. I fell backwards, basically inches from the fire. My legs were still up on the picnic bench while my elbows were holding my body up from lying in fire basically. JoJo decided as this was all happening that she had to pee. This couldn’t wait apparently. Not only did she choose the bathroom over her fallen sidekick, but she chose it while laughing hysterically at me lying in a fire. Granted, I was laughing as well. I’ll be fair here; it wasn’t like I was being burned at the stake when she left. I was a moderately safe distance from the flames. So as I lay in my back yard, by myself, at 3am, inches from flames eating my face; I thought about my options. I realized if I moved either of my arms it would result in me falling directly into the flames because they were all that was supporting me. I also realized I was way too drunk to navigate this situation on my own. I don’t make the best decisions sober, so when I need to make them while drinking I usually just don’t decide and wait for someone else to do it for me. But once again, being the smart little drunken resourceful thinker that I am, I discovered a beer close by. It was close enough that I could keep my arm planted to hold my body away from ensuing death, but also grab the refreshing beverage. I mean, I was lying in a fire…it was hot, give me a break. So when JoJo came back out she found me still lying in the fire pit, but drinking a beer. As she continued hysterically laughing at me she came over to help now that her bladder was empty and she was capable of doing such. Thanks JoJo, you saved not only me, but also that Bud Light. You’re a true friend for life.

When we weren’t crusading around town dressing as Mexicans and drinking we were back to the grind at work watching the circus ensue. Pecan Glasses and Scruffy Tubs were working the ice cream stand one night and they were both on their ‘A’ game. Pecan Glasses no longer wanted to be Pecan Glasses. She had gotten contacts but still hadn’t mastered them. When I say she hadn’t mastered them I mean she looked like a rabid monkey trying to put them in. She would make all sorts of noises and swat her arms around in the air while they were settling into her eyes. I know this, because she wouldn’t go to the bath room to put them in. She would do it right out in the store. But don’t get me wrong, she was very sanitary when doing it. She literally would poor half of a mini bottle of hand sanitizer into her hands, push it around for 2 seconds and then, with her hands dripping in sanitizer would put her contacts in. She would then complain about her eyes stinging saying her contacts were “broken”. Just a guess here, Pecan Glasses…the burning could have to do with the rubbing alcohol you’re smearing your eye balls with. I’m no doctor, but just a thought. So on this particular night Scruffy Tubs took his usual 13 minutes to make one milkshake and when he gave it to the customer she asked him if he had to go milk the cow. He didn’t quite understand she was upset and making fun of how long he had taken and just grunted at her and walked away. This was his normal routine if someone confused him. So Pecan Glasses had to come over and finish the order. The customer’s friend asked for a hot fudge sundae. The customer said no nuts I believe 3 times, and I was across the store and heard it. Pecan Glasses then proceeded to pile nuts all over the sundae. As she was doing this the customer stated one last time no nuts. Pecan finally heard it, giggled a little, then pushed all the nuts off into the trash and handed her the sundae. When the customers started complaining about how bad their whole experience was, Pecan Glasses just up and walked away scratching at her eyes like a meth head who hadn’t slept in 9 days and then started yelling her eyes were on fire. This is when I decided I would swoop in to try and save the situation and get a tip. This was always the perfect situation because the second the customer realizes you’re normal and even just a little better than the last two, they instantly love you. It’s like after Bush left the White House. My dog could have gotten elected after him and everyone would have said President Muffin was the chosen savior of our country and would lead us to prosperity. It’s not exactly a tough act to follow.

Ok, all this talk of ice cream, now I want some. So I’ll end this story so I can go get some but again, I will most likely revisit more adventures of the Byrne Dairy and also of me and the one and only JoJo. I still haven’t even told you about how we metaphorically ‘dunked the shit out of one fat donut.’  Yes…it is as weird as it sounds.

Are You There Ellen DeGeneres? It’s Me, Amy

Dear Ellen-

Let’s dive right in here. I am a huge fan. I am a comedian. I bleed for US women’s soccer. If you add all of these things together what do you get? (Said as an overly eager and slightly obnoxious cheerleader) You get me, being your official correspondent to Women’s Professional Soccer next season and also the Olympics next summer to cover the US Women’s National Soccer Team! (Feel free to do some cheer kicks and spirit fingers in excitement over this idea. I’ll give you a moment, read on once you’re done.)

Ok, welcome back. I loved that you got into this Women’s World Cup and were tweeting your support for the team. I have loved and played soccer since I was 4. I started writing and performing comedy when I was 14. Those are the only two things in my life that I can honestly say I have ever been passionate about. There is nothing I love more than putting a smile on someone’s face and making people laugh. I always debate if I should have stuck with soccer, but I know in my heart I was meant to make people laugh and bring smiles and laughter to people’s lives. Well, that, and also play with puppies. I love puppies.

So Ellen, I am going to try in every form possible to contact you. I have a writing packet I would love to get to you as well. If you would like to read on to more of my blog entries, to get a better feel for my writing and general lack of good decision making, please do. My dream is to be successful in comedy and someday work for you and learn from you. If I could start that dream by covering women’s soccer for you, I might actually explode from excitement. Literally. But don’t let that sway you from contacting me; I will risk combustion for this. I have so many ideas for different skits, interviews, and coverage that would all be funny, entertaining, and helpful to promoting the sport and the amazing female athletes we have here playing soccer. Your show would be perfect for this idea as a brief segment from time to time covering the WPS league and possibly something for your website for the Olympics next summer. WPS needs all the support it can get and I want to help in the effort. Also, once the Olympics come I suppose I could cover some of those other sports they do there as well. I tend to forget there are other sports happening there, other than soccer. But for you, I would cover anything and everything. Except maybe pole vaulting, that looks terrifying to me.

So please have your people contact my people. I’m sorry, that’s a lie. I don’t have people. If you could get me people, that would be awesome. But I won’t push it, we can talk details later. I hope you get to see this and you see something in me and in this idea.

Thanks for inspiring comedians like me every day.

-Amy

PS: Tell Portia I am super excited for the Arrested Development movie. We want the Bluth’s back!!! And also let her know she had the best chicken dance…hands down.

My First Job

My first job was at a convenience store / gas station.  I was 16 and wanted to start saving money to move to California after high school.  My interview was what you would expect from a first interview for a 16 year old.  The manager there was young and pretty hot so I flirted with him the entire time, asked no questions that related to the job itself, asked how much I would get paid, made it clear my weekends were very important to me, and said I refuse to wear a hair net while serving ice cream or making pizza.  And when I say flirting, it was 16 year old flirting, which in fact isn’t really flirting at all.  Looking back you realize all you were doing was smiling to the point that made you look crazy, saying “like” a lot, attempting your sophisticated laugh if you thought he was telling a joke, and trying to do a seductive look which gave off the impression you must have a tick.  Ok, so maybe that was just me.  But somehow I still got the job.

I would be working at the cash register, serving ice cream, and stocking the fridge occasionally.  I am not one for manual labor so I immediately figured the ice cream and the register would be my favorites.  But I soon realized as much as I hated manual labor, I hated customers even more.  When you are a 16 year old girl the last thing you want to do is be working at the cash register in a convenience store around the corner from 4 construction companies.  You knew when it was break time for them because they would all be in there buying food and doing their best to uphold their stereotype of being dirty creepers.  So I would normally ask to work the ice cream stand or stock the fridge.  Working ice cream was the best because it was fun, easy, and you could get tips.  Well technically, you couldn’t get tips.  But who was I to stop someone from dropping me a few extra dollars just because they wanted to after I tell them, “We take tips by the way.”  I was really good at it too, but some of my co workers weren’t always the best.  One guy, who I will refer to as Scruffy Tubs due to his scruffy face and voice and his obese tubby stomach, was pure entertainment to watch.  He was incapable of keeping his jeans up, he walked at a pace that would make my 87 year old grandmother tell him to hurry it up, and he was bat shit crazy.  So when he was working ice cream a typical customer scenario would normally play out like this.  He would greet them by saying “Hi what do you want?” while leaning over the counter with his crack severely hanging out and take their order.  This order was normally needed to be repeated to Scruffy Tubs 3 times before he got it straight.  He would then turn to start making his masterpiece.  It would again take around 3 times for him to make the order correctly.  After he would screw it up he would mumble an obscenity, throw the failed effort away, pull his pants up which were now showing almost all of his ass, and start again.  Once he had successfully made the order he would give it to the customer and then the real fun began; watching him try to figure out the register.  This consisted of him smacking random buttons unsure of what they did, grunting, mumbling more obscenities, grunting some more, and then having someone come ring it up for him saying he had to go take care of something in the back.  Whoever went to ring it out was always screwed, because after ringing it out they would look around and realize it looked like a tornado hit the ice cream area.  He would somehow even make a mess of ingredients he wasn’t even using.  He could be making a medium vanilla soft serve and somehow there would be nuts, sprinkles, hard cotton candy ice cream, and marshmallow fluff everywhere.  It was actually impressive.  I miss Scruffy Tubs.

After I was working there for awhile the manager hired another younger girl who went to my school.  She was a year or two younger than me and I decided to take her under my wing.  Between the construction guys coming in and Scruffy Tubs mooning everyone in the store on a minute to minute basis, I decided as long as I liked her I would help her.  Our manager had me teach her the ice cream stand.  So I started showing her everything and as I asked her to try to do something I saw her just frozen staring into the distance like there was a train coming at her full speed ahead and she knew death was near.  I looked to the same direction and saw nothing else, but Scruffy Tubs almost full bare ass up in the air as he cleaned a spill.  Once she could get over the shock of it she made some smart ass remark and started laughing.  Ok, she definitely passes, we’re going to be friends.  Her name was Jojo which was another plus because that is one of the best names to say when you’re drunk, on a side note.  Working with her was a lot of fun and we became friends outside of work.  Our manager at first liked how we worked together thinking we were being very productive and getting a lot done and I was a good teacher for her.  In fact we were normally just hanging out in the cooler talking or “cleaning the back room”.  This was always fun because it basically meant we would just be climbing around on all the structures and unwrapping boxes of supplies which would inevitably end up in styrofoam cup wars and more of a mess then when we started.  The cooler was also fun, especially on delivery days.  Again, because it meant we got to climb around on all the crates and cases of beer.  It was like that entire store was our fort.  We were like little kids again playing in forts that we made.  Only now we were making them out of cases of beer.  Which we were also drinking from time to time.  Just like kids…drunk destructive kids who steal beer.  How I miss innocent youth.

Everyone we worked with were all characters.  It’s like the universe knew someday I would be writing comedy and just perfectly placed these people around me.  Here’s a quick rundown of the rest of the cast.  The woman who worked the overnight shift was a witch.  She practiced witchcraft with her husband, who just so happened to be a substitute teacher at my school where everyone assumed he was certifiably insane.  Her engagement ring from him was a giant teal colored fake rock looking thing that she bragged to everyone cost $23.  Next is a girl who I’m really not even sure how to begin explaining.  She was a lesbian, but talked about all of her boyfriends all the time, but said she wasn’t bi.  If you understand that please let me know and explain, thanks.  She was kind of spazzy and I just never knew what to expect with her.  My friend and I had a video project for government class in school where we had a law to do a report on.  The laws we had to show being enforced were underage drinking and stealing.  I couldn’t have chosen better ones.  I think we were supposed to do more than just show it being enforced, but our teacher loved when we would do our video projects so I am pretty sure we never actually did what was asked, but it worked out.  Whenever we had to do a project we would just get high and shoot a video roughly based around the topic she gave us and she always loved it.  So we went to my work and explained we were going to be shooting the video there and I would be a teen trying to buy alcohol and when I get turned down I would steal it.  We had the idea that I would run to the door acting like it was in slow motion as I stole the bottle of booze and Crazypants (the girl I am talking about) would chase me down and act like she tackles me and take the booze back.  Everything was running smoothly, I was doing a stellar slow motion run for the door, she was slow motion chasing me, but then she went to full speed out of nowhere, laid out horizontally in the air and straight up superman dive tackled me to the ground.  Crazypants was crazy.  So after such an ordeal, I of course took it upon myself to in fact steal the bottle after all was said and done.  I was just tackled!  I needed a drink.  Last but not least was the “mom” of the crew.  She was in fact a mom of two kids who were near my age also.  She was a teacher but wanted to pick up an extra job with her oldest going to college soon.  She was another whiz at the ice cream stand.  It would take her 5 minutes just to get the gloves on, which still wouldn’t be on by the end of the struggle anyways.  And just like Scruffy Tubs, would create a post tornado atmosphere when done.  She wore glasses which I never knew how she was able to see out of because after she was done making the ice cream she would keep the gloves on and always be touching her glasses so they were constantly fogged by blue raspberry and butter pecan.  There was nothing better than watching the two of them work together on a busy Friday night.  Jojo and I were really good working ice cream together.  We worked well together, customers liked us, and we could make a milkshake in less than 10 minutes, so that helped.  But I think everyone always wanted to see Scruffy Tubs and Pecan Glasses work together more just because of the entertainment factor.  Screw being profitable, we want to see some Scruffy Tub butt!

All in all I loved working there.  The stories I have from there are endless, so I’ll have to revisit it sometime.  Until then farewell Scruffy Tub, Pecan Glasses, Crazypants, Hot Boss, Witchcraft and Jojo.

Amy Maestri: Tennis Aficionado

I watched my first almost full tennis match the other day. It was a women’s match for a title of some sort. I tuned in right at the beginning of the 2nd portion of the scoring table thing that has 3 sections. As you can see, I am already an expert. As soon as I tuned in one of the women was at the little referee high chair throne thing complaining about something. Her name was something or other Jankovic. Jankovic was whining about her opponent, Maria Sharapova. Saying Sharapova was taking too much time by turning her back before a serve or some non sense. You could see Sharapova not looking too thrilled over her opponent’s outcry as she kind of smirked and rolled her eyes. (rolling your eyes at someone acting stupid always gets you major points with me right away, so that was excellent work for a first impression) The ref didn’t seem to be too impressed by Jankovic’s Tanya Harding impression crying over this either. Now that I think about it, I am going to refer to Jankovic as ‘Tanya’ for the rest of the story. Typing Jankovic is kind of a pain so let’s make it easier.

So right away, without knowing the first thing about tennis I was already on Sharapova’s side because of Tanya’s complaining and Sharapova’s excellent rolling of eyes ability. I don’t like seeing complaining like that in sports. I hate the one who is always on the ground crying, or yelling at the ref, or head butting other players in the chest because they felt like it. (For all you fellow soccer fans, you’re welcome) Just play the game, you know? So I continued watching, not always sure what the score meant or what they were talking about but I found myself getting really into it. The more I watched, the more I realized Tanya was in fact the biggest offender in wasting time, not Sharapova. In between the mini battles of swatting the ball with their rackets, Tanya would walk back to her coach in the crowd, get a little pep talk and a gold star if she did something good, wipe her face which wasn’t sweating with a towel, and then come back to the court. While she was doing this Sharapova was jumping on her toes anxiously waiting for the next battle of swatting while playing with her racket like those tennis pros do so well. What are they doing when they do that anyways? They always start picking at their racket like there are bugs in it. Wait! Is that it? From the swinging, do they collect bugs in it like a car on the freeway? Wow, I really am a tennis expert now. Point for me! Now that I have solved one of the greatest mysteries in sports history, let’s get back to the match. It was a really good battle. Anyone who can appreciate good athletes and good competition I think could have gotten into this match. It was back and forth and no one had a clear edge for more than a couple turns before the other one fought back. But I soon noticed something about Sharapova that really made me start pulling for her even more. She never once looked like she was going to be defeated. She looked frustrated at times of course, but it would only be for a moment before she got this intense game face back on. Anyone who knows me or who has read my stuff knows I am a big Hope Solo fan. No doubt, Hope Solo is the queen of the universe of the intense stare down and game face. My friend Dawn said she has tiger eyes, and I have to agree. A tiger who knows they can destroy you with one swipe and then be asked to be on Dancing With The Stars. You know, one of those classy tigers who can jitterbug. But I have to admit, Sharapova has a pretty good stare down too. Hers is one of pure concentration and focus. She had that look for most of the match and her body language stayed strong and confident. By the end you wouldn’t know that this match was pushing 3 hours by her body language. Tanya looked decently poised by the end also, but she just didn’t seem to have that edge, that inner force pushing her to win it. When it comes to one on one competition I have crazy respect for those athletes. It just comes down to you. Sharapova seemed to internalize everything and really motivate herself to win. I respect that. I also have to say that quite possibly one of my favorite things about the whole match was Sharapova screaming “Come on!!!!” and pumping her fist when she was pleased with a strong play. I love that she never changed it up. No “Yea!” or “Woo Hoo’s” just straight up, “Come on!!!” I was so inspired by it that later that day I found myself yell “Come on!!” after finally opening a jar of pickles I had been fighting with for a couple of days. There is no doubt in my mind those pickles felt like giant loser pickles after hearing my sheer joy from my victorious triumph. I may have to start using that more often in my day to day activities. Anyways, it was just great to see an athlete so passionate and focused all around. In the end, Sharapova did come out with the win after a very hard fought battle between the two. I will hand it to Tanya, she seemed to do very good with the whole swinging of the racket and darting from side to side thing, but just couldn’t hack it against Sharapova and her fist pumping cheers of glee.

This match definitely gained my interest to continue watching and try to become more knowledgeable on it. Although, as you can clearly see from this I am already basically a certified tennis expert. So in conclusion I just have one more thing to say. Aside from Sharapova’s obvious athletic ability, determination, and skill, I think she also had a clear advantage past all that. Anyone watching could tell you she deserved this win and this is why. Her lady tennis player grunts were far superior. I didn’t hear Tanya grunt once, not once! What kind of women’s tennis player is that? As Sharapova would say, “Come on!!!”

I Fear I May Be A Hot Mess

I’m sleep deprived and haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon when I had a glass of $4 champagne for lunch and a slice of cheese. I think now is a good time to write.

I’m not sure yet what I want to write about though. I’m recently unemployed and being unemployed has been ok so far. I am working out much more, getting outside more, it’s been nice. Also, I think being unemployed has helped my writing immensely. My sanity, I’m not so sure. The other day I laughed at my own Facebook status for a solid 5 minutes while sitting on my couch in my pajamas at 3 in the afternoon on a Thursday. And by pajamas, yes I do mean one of my soccer t shirts from when I was 9 and a pair of comfy shorts I have had for 10 years and the elastic no longer helps whatsoever in the effort to keep them above a PG 13 level on me. I think this experience has been good for me though. When you have this much time to just think and reflect you go deep within yourself and do a lot of self revision. I for one have discovered I do not like working. But I also do not like having no money. I think I just don’t like what I used to do for a living. If I was doing something I loved, that would be a different story of course. But the only two things I love are comedy and soccer. Although I am working out much more now that I have the time to, ever since I went on my champagne and cheese diet I am pretty sure I am just not in playing shape for soccer anymore. So that’s probably out. Hopefully comedy pans out. If not, I may need a new pair of comfy shorts to hang out in because these things just do not want to stay up.

My sister just called me and we got into a random series of conversations. One of which lead us to my computer illiterate family. So now I would like to take you down a little tangent with me. My sister and I are no computer geniuses, far from it. But we both have a pretty decent knowledge. When you look at my parents’ ability to understand technology it’s a wonder either of us are able to operate a window fan. They weren’t bad when we were younger. Mom and Dad seemed to have a good grasp on the home video player and the video recorder. We got a word processor when those were big, then a computer, it seemed like they were on top of it. It might just be because I was too young to see their severe illiteracy or maybe they actually were on top of their game back then. My Dad is tricky though you see. My Mom acknowledges she knows nothing about computers and is ok with it. When you put her in front of the computer she looks like she’s terrified of it. I also feel like she has watched too many 90’s sitcoms where people would hit one button and delete everything on the computer. That seems to be a fear of hers and as a result, every time she hits a button she cringes like it is about to explode. Her cell phone isn’t much better. Her voicemail message that she recorded for herself sounds like someone is holding a gun to her head forcing her to even have the thing in the first place. But at least she is not in denial. She admits it. My Dad, though gets tricky. He seems like he has a good grasp on things on the surface. But when you dig deeper you realize he is not much better off. When you get down to it he is still trying to figure out how to forward an email, but he spends hours on the computer at times. This is now, and will always be one of life’s great mysteries to me. I can’t understand what he does for hours when he in fact has no idea what he is doing on it. I’m fairly certain half the time is spent just staring at the screen trying to figure out what the glowing box is trying to say to him. I swear one day I am going to walk into the den at my parent’s house and see him pounding the computer monitor like a caveman grunting at it. I used the computer last time I was visiting home though, and man was it slow. So there is a good chance that’s just how long it takes him to post one of his responses to an article telling everyone what a jackass he thinks Rush Limbaugh is.

My Mom definitely gave me what I call “sitcom-idous”. It’s where I say things out loud that should be kept to myself, but I picture myself in a sitcom where it would be hilarious. When in fact when said in real life, will just make you look like a total jack ass. She doesn’t have that part of the syndrome, but she does have the part where she just gets herself into situations where you feel like it should be in a sitcom. Again, her technology skills playing a major role. My sister has tried convincing her that the DVR is not hard to operate, especially compared to the 1000 steps you had to go through on the old VCR’s to record and play back things which she always did just fine with. But she still won’t budge and insists she can’t do it. I think my sister finally believes her now though. They were watching Brothers and Sisters on the DVR one day when my sister had to go to the bathroom. She gave the remote to my Mom during the commercial and said you can just pause it when it comes back if I’m not back in time. Mom insisted she would screw it up, to which my sister laughed it off and said all you have to do is hit pause, you’ll be fine. When my sister came back my Mom was enthralled with the TV watching the screen intently. My sister sat down and looked up to see a black and white film of Eisenhower’s farewell speech that had aired on CSPAN 6 months ago. You really can’t make that stuff up. Of all things she could have done, she put on the most random opposite thing from what they were watching. She really out did herself. She could have just stopped it instead of pausing it, or hit fast forward by mistake, but no…she pulled out the big guns and somehow got an Eisenhower special on. Sitcom-idous at its finest my friends. My sister just asked my Mom what happened to which my Mom didn’t have much to say. She was obviously still shell shocked by the series of events which lead her to this program when her only instructions were to hit pause. We still don’t know what happened that day, but one this was clear; Mom could no longer be trusted with the DVR.

Tangent: complete. New tangent: begin.

I am beginning to get anxious to get a new place. I have already been here for 6 months. For a commit-aphobe like me that is basically a life time. I’m surprised I haven’t started breaking out in rashes yet. To start, I am 99% sure I live next to nocturnal deaf mutes who have the need to move furniture every night at 2 am. I never heard voices, just furniture sliding around and being moved all over the place. I feel like I’m one Mexican riding a forklift around away from living at an Ikea warehouse. Next, I am female and Caucasian and quite obviously the minority here. One of the only other white people I have met at my apartment has been the token drunk 50 year old woman who always smells of stale Newports and cheap whiskey and says things…wait, no yells things like “everyone wears tennis shoes!” for no apparent reason at me in the elevator. I fear if I stay here much longer that is my future. It has a community laundry room which I am always scared to go to. I have only lived one other place that had a shared laundry room. All of my other places had ones in the unit or the house. Community laundry creeps me out in general but it’s all made much worse by the eerie maintenance lady who always seems to be there, but never seems to be doing anything. She mainly stands in the corner fumbling with her keys and acting like she is getting cleaning supplies from the closet while staring at you out of the corner of her eye. Speaking of laundry mats too, you know what bugs me about a lot of movies? I don’t know where they get this stuff in movies where people meet and fall in love in a laundry mat. How many times has that happened in movies and TV? All the time! Two young, attractive, clean, sane singles meet at the laundry mat, and they flirt and talk and then end up dating and falling in love. No! That doesn’t happen. Anyone I have ever met at a community laundry facility either makes me want to shower in bleach immediately after or they scare me to the point that I avoid it all together and end up wearing my back up “last possible option” 12 year old Space Jam t-shirt when I go out because that is all I have left of clean laundry. If I ever fall in love at a laundry mat, kill me.

Well, I think that might be it for me right now. I always feel so cleansed after writing aimlessly. It’s like a spiritual experience. Or maybe it’s just me feeling light headed since I haven’t eaten since my slice of cheese yesterday. I felt very French, very European while doing it. You know Champagne and cheese on a nice Wednesday afternoon, so classy. But then I remembered it was $4.95 Champagne from Rite Aid and a Kraft single, the wrapper of which was stuck to the bottom of my thigh for most of the day which I didn’t realize. Life is good.

Late Night Entries To Ellen DeGeneres

I just got done sending my pitch to Ellen Degeneres.  This is the same idea I have been working on for a few weeks now and have sent out a couple different places.  So I am crossing my fingers and hoping she sees it and sees what an obviously unbelievable talent I am.  And also of course see my pure modesty.

While I was submitting everything to her my Internet decided to run at speeds that reminded me of when my parents first got us America Online. I was ready to throw my laptop across the room at one point. I have found though, that my writing gets better the more angry or frustrated I am.  You would think comedy…ok its fun and you should be in a fun happy mood to write it.  But nope I am at my best when I have just stubbed my toe, found out I owe $300 to the city for parking tickets, and realized that while on sleeping pills recently I sent an email to everyone I know letting them know I wet the bed until an embarrassingly late age.  If I am angry, sad, embarrassed, or hurt…it’s all gold.

The idea I sent to her is my idea about helping promote women’s soccer while also promoting my winning smile and witty dialogue of course.  Long story short, I would be a correspondent for her like she has sometimes for certain events.  But instead of sitting there screaming like a moron like most of the fans who end up doing these things, I would be interactive and have tons of ideas for interviews, skits, and video entries.  I have plenty of ideas separate from this one as well I would love to do, but this one has just really taken over all of my time. As I have stated recently, I am actually having dreams about this idea like every other night.  Of course, when I am not dreaming about this I am in fact dreaming about being the lead singer of an 80’s hair band who lives with the Golden Girls and only performs at drive in movie theaters side by side with a mime show.  You know, the usual.  Man, if I could combine the crazy ass dreams about Ellen and the WPS with the Golden Girls and 80’s hair band music with mimes it could quite possibly be the world’s most epic dream sequence.  I’ll keep you updated on if this magnificent event comes about.

So cross your fingers for my Ellen idea, and also that I get to have that dream.

How It All Started

Teacher: Amy, you are talking too much. Go sit in the time out chair.

The teacher soon notices Amy has moved the little red plastic time out chair back to her friends.

Teacher: Amy, what are you doing? I told you to go sit in time out.

Amy: No, you told me to sit in the time out chair. You didn’t tell me where to sit in it.

That was kindergarten, and it was all down hill from there.

I was born in Syracuse, NY as Amy Marie Maestri. I have an older sister, Laurinda. Her name is a mix between my Aunts, Laura and Linda. So after coming up with that my parents were obviously exhausted and just said, screw it…Amy. Short and sweet. I grew up thinking I would someday be a professional soccer player. But then I realized how much I loved making people laugh. And also, it seemed like a bit of a long shot and I decided I needed something more dependable and solid. So I moved on from that dream and landed on comedian / actress. I figured that obviously I would have better chances with this because no one is trying to break into show business.

My first experience in show business was home made videos with my two best friends. We created such classic shows as Painting With Francis, Casino Night, and various news programs and commercials. It was like if SNL was made by 8 year olds who had ADD and a budget of $4 and whatever wigs and dress up clothes my mother had for us. I also wrote my first movie when I was 10. It was a “who done it” comedy that I was convinced would secure me a place in Hollywood as a celebrity. When in fact the only place it got me was after school cleaning chalkboards and erasers because I tried holding casting calls during classes.

After 14 years of torturing my teachers and parents for the sole reason of wanting to get a reaction and a laugh I decided it was time to put that skill to good use. I was watching Comedy Central and decided, yes I will do that. I started writing there and then and one week later I auditioned for the school talent show. The auditions were in a classroom in front of about 8 people. Even just doing it in that atmosphere, I was already hooked. The drama teacher told me it was refreshing to hear original material from a 14 year old and not something R rated copied from an HBO special. My reply, “That’s fuckin right.”

The night of the talent show I was nothing but excited. Everyone thought I would be nervous but I’ll be honest. I’m an attention whore so if you tell me you’re putting me in front of 300 people with a spotlight, I will definitely be excited, not nervous. I went up there and did 6 minutes of material about my big Italian family, cheerleaders, and looking forward to the day I would be able to drive. The 6 minutes felt like 6 seconds and I did not want to get off the stage. With every laugh I felt higher and higher. Once I was done they went nuts and I wanted that feeling forever.

The next day I told my parents what every parent just loves to hear. “I am going to be a famous comedian.” They knew I was good, but they also knew I fucked up a lot. So it was a 50 / 50 toss up for them but they ended up supporting me.

From there I started writing all the time. I carried a little blue note book with me that became notorious around school as “Amy’s little blue notebook”. That’s right; I went to school with a real clever bunch. Everyone would always try to sneak a peek at the note book and what I was writing but I never let anyone. Once one of my friends got it but they soon realized it was pointless. All I would write were a few little words that would remind me of what I wanted to write about that no one else ever understood. Things like “baby ski pots.” And “mouthwash roses stage”. Yeah, I was obviously either a genius or illiterate. I like to think genius but the jury is still out.

I had a birthday party at a karaoke place and everyone made me get up and do some stand up. Yes, I was my own entertainment at my birthday party. So I did about 10 minutes and immediately returned to my kick ass Genie in A Bottle rendition. After the party the owner of the joint came up and offered a full length show slot. So I refined my show, added a couple more jokes and I was ready to go. I went up there with my bright yellow YMCA kids t-shirt that I had stolen from the Thrifty Shopper and rocked that audience for 60 minutes. I could never ask for a better feeling. My drama teacher came and sat in the back in the shadows the whole time. Every time I saw her she was not laughing. I don’t know if this was planned or not but it kept me in check and also made me want to piss my pants a little.

I was at the homecoming football game was when I got some really big news. My parents came to the game and called me out of the crowd to come talk to them. I thought, ok I’m done. I don’t know what I did this time, but they came all the way here. I must have stolen something and forgotten. Turns out they had just gotten a call from the college where my sister went to school, SUNY New Paltz, telling me they got my demo and would like to invite me to be the opening, opening act for professional comedian Mark Curry. I was 16 and couldn’t believe I would be performing with “Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper”.

I picked out some of my best material to fill the 5 minutes they gave me and headed down to New Paltz with my family. It was a crowd of about 700 people and I couldn’t wait. I got some good laughs during my set and sat back down after and watched the show. Afterwards I got to meet Mark and he was amazing. Tall as shit, and amazing. He gave me the advice to never stop writing, to just write, write and write. So I followed his advice.

Next was a call to go down to NYC and perform at an invite only open mic night at Stand Up New York. I was 16 years old still, and I was sitting in a bar in NYC with a bunch of comedians that had been doing this since I was trading pudding cups for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 3rd grade. I made friends with the next youngest comedian there, who was 25. As he drank his bottle of Bud Light and I drank my sippy cup of 1% milk we talked about where we had performed. I definitely felt out of my league. The first show ran way over until around 11pm so I was left sitting in the bar area with the other comedians. I was getting a little tired of watching all these older comedians drink beer while I couldn’t. So I decided to go for the stronger stuff. “Bartender, I’m done with this kid stuff…get me a glass of whole milk.” Once our show started and I got called up by the MC I went out there and immediately found a person right up front who was really digging my act and was really vocal and into it. So I fed off of her for my set and loved every second of it. I couldn’t have asked for a better first time experience in NYC. I didn’t kill, but I didn’t bomb. They got me. They got what I was about and they liked it. I was satisfied.

I was about to turn 18 and I wanted to do another full solo performance. I sent my demo and resume to a local coffee shop / bar / café downtown and they invited me to do a show there. In the last show I had done I introduced my guitar into my act and planned on bringing it back for this show. I had a parody of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” ready to go that I turned into a song about cheerleaders. (When I see that on paper I see how ridiculous it sounds. I would say it makes more sense once you hear the song, but that would be a lie.) I really did have a lot of material that I liked, but I seemed to have lost focus half way through writing for that show. I was signed on to do an hour and somehow neglected to notice I only prepared about 35 minutes. It was the night before my birthday and the first half of the show was great, I was killing it. I took a 10 minute intermission and retreated to my dressing room which was in fact the basement of the coffee shop where they stored all the drinks. My friend who was introducing me that night came down and asked if I was ready. I looked down at my notes realizing I only had about 5 minutes left if I was lucky. I couldn’t tell you what in the hell I talked about for that 25 minutes. I went back and forth between using old material that I would change a little on the spot, using the 5 minutes of new material I did have left, and scanning the audience to get ideas of what I could talk about based off of anything that I saw. I got through it though, I made it 30 minutes. A few friends came down and said how much they loved the show. I asked how they liked the second half and it was apparent that no one had noticed anything and they said it was great. Whew. Ok, time to party. So I did what any self respecting, about-to-turn-18 year old comedian would do and stole a 6 pack of beer from the basement and went on my way to my party.

After that show I started writing much more. But I noticed a difference in my writing and how I looked at things. I had always had an interest in sketch comedy and improv and loved performing both. But I had never taken writing seriously in anything other than stand up until that point. It was exciting to be viewing things a little differently but a little frustrating at the same time that I couldn’t seem to write stand up as frequently as I once had. But now I know it doesn’t matter what form I write things in, I just do what Mark Curry told me to do…I just write.

I moved to San Diego the winter after graduating high school with an intent on working, saving money, and eventually moving up to LA. I did not concentrate on work and saving money for LA. Who would have thought, an 18 year old, 3000 miles from home, living alone for the first time didn’t save money? When I wasn’t working I was partying on the beach and crowning myself the self proclaimed “night surfing champion of the world and most of the universe.”

I moved back to Syracuse just before turning 20. Apparently the ‘night surfing champion of the world and most of the universe’ had spent all of her money. I unfortunately lost focus at that point and was not writing or performing for awhile. I started writing again though and got that itch back. I missed writing, I missed forming ideas, and I really missed being on stage. Like I said, I’m an attention whore.

So currently, I am writing more then I ever have and taking classes in LA. I’m older, wiser, and am already the night surfing champion of most of the universe so that won’t distract me this time around.

As much as I would love to keep writing right now I’m thirsty, so I’m going to grab my sippy cup of whole milk, toss a few back, and brush up on my ‘Painting With Francis’ impression. But keep an eye out for me…I’ll be the girl holding the little red plastic time out chair going wherever the hell I want to with it.

Your Porch…Is My Porch

“Officer, my friend Mollie is still at the bar. I am 77% sure of this. If you take me there I can probably find her if you let me go back into the bar.”

This is not how I planned on spending the end of my Friday night. But hey, when buy one get one drink specials are involved you never know. The night started at my before mentioned friend, Mollie’s house. Quietly enough we had a few beers with friends before going to a bar I had never heard of before. We were supposed to be doing a bar hop about an hour away but decided we wanted to be lazy alcoholics that night, not ambitious ones, so we stayed close by. The bar was only about a mile or so down the street from her house.

From the outside it looked like someplace I would go in a dream if I wanted to hang out with Roseanne Barr and a drunken fisherman who would take me out on his boat after for some PBR and sushi he bought at a gas station. On the inside it was surprisingly not bad. There were still plenty of women resembling Roseanne in certain lights. Which obviously only meant one thing; I would have a much better chance of leaving with a guy who’s not eating $1.99 sushi and offering me PBR because they were all already taken by the various Roseannes. Little did I know, that by the end of the night the only guy I would be with would be the officer putting me in the back of his cop car. Maybe I should have just hit on him. Maybe I did. Your guess is as good as mine. It turned out it was a decent spot inside with a pool table I could lose on, a dart board I could win on, and a dance floor I could make a fool of myself on. I fully intended to take advantage.

My drink of choice at that time was Captain and Coke. My drink of choice that specific night was double Captain and Coke. Along with every other drink anyone wanted to buy me. We all headed to the back to play darts.  Perhaps one or seven shots were mixed in there somewhere as well. As we were playing darts that feeling hit me. We have all experienced it. “I wonder if I am standing straight. I am pretty sure I’m swaying wildly right now. I should try to act normal. Wow, I’m fucked up. No, no I’m not. Come on, just act normal or everyone will know I’m already drunk.” Because of course at this point no one could tell I was drunk from the fact that I had already downed enough alcohol to make David Hasselhoff say “slow down”. But of course, we all still try at this point to blend in and be normal. This is when you start leaning on things to try and stabilize yourself, laugh when other people are laughing even though you’re not even involved in the conversation, start focusing way too hard on how you’re walking to the point that everyone can see the concentration on your face, (and you still don’t walk that good) and over enunciating everything to sound not drunk. Which of course all of these things do nothing other than make you look even more drunk than before.

I can’t tell you exactly what occurred after darts. I can tell you that once I get an idea in my head there is no stopping me. Once I get an idea in my head when I have been drinking, you might as well go home; there is definitely no stopping me. I can also tell you I like wandering from time to time. I will just get something into my head that makes me think, “Yeah, I should leave and go do that.” Whatever that is…I never know.

Mollie helped fill me in a little on her side of the story. Around midnight she started asking everyone if they had seen me; no one had. She looked around and couldn’t find me, and assumed I had left. As she started to really wonder what had happened to me someone came up and asked if she was Mollie. “Who’s asking?” was her response. They responded with the unfortunate, “Your friend Amy is in the back of a cop car out front.”

Soon before that, I had apparently decided it was about that time, that time for me to leave and conquer whatever it is that needed attending to immediately. I vaguely remember concentrating on walking in a straight line. I did this by focusing on the white line on the side of the road. It wasn’t going well. You know it’s bad when even you are laughing at yourself because of what a drunk asshole you look like. But then you quickly stop laughing because you realize what a drunk asshole you look like.

After that it’s a little blurry and the next glimmer of insight I had on the night was lying down on some sort of bench. It was extremely uncomfortable and I wasn’t quite sure where I was, how I had gotten there, or why I had gotten there. This bench just so happened to be on a porch…belonging to a person…that I did not know. I had left a bar that I was having a great time at, with people I know and like hanging out with, to walk away and find a bench that wasn’t comfortable and was on someone’s porch who I didn’t know. The next thing I remember is a cop waking me up. The people who own the house found me outside sleeping. I can only imagine some of the things going through their heads. I only regret one thing about this entire night, and it is that I didn’t get to see the look on their faces when they discovered me. Let’s fast forward to once I am in the back of the car.

“Where you coming from tonight?”

“That hick bar.”

“What bar is it?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been there before. It’s right down the street.”

“Do you even know where you are right now?”

“Touché. We may not be down the street anymore. Wait, my friend lives on Lake road, or Lake something. I know we’re by a lake…right?” I said extremely proud of myself.

“Lakeshore Road?”

“Sure, that works.”

“Are your friends still there?”

“My friend Mollie is still at the bar. I am almost 77% sure of this. If you just take me there I can probably find her if you let me go back into the bar.”

“You are not going back in the bar.”

“But I have a tab open.”

He didn’t find this amusing. We figured out where the bar was and when we got to the bar he told me to sit there and wait. So I sat and waited and looked to my right to see Mollie standing there, arms in the air laughing and shaking her head in utter confusion. I flashed my pearly whites and gave her a “Hi Mom!! Look at what I’m doing!” smile and wave from the back of the cop car.

The officer let me out of the car and told Mollie to take me home. I then told him not so fast, I still have a tab and I am not letting Roseanne mooch off of my MasterCard.  No tickets, no handcuffs, just a good old ride back to the bar from the cop. I have to assume he just didn’t feel like filling out the paper work for “dumb drunk girl sleeping on bench on stranger’s porch”. I was obviously harmless. A hot mess, but harmless.

We went back into the bar to get my tab. I was greeted by a dozen people who I didn’t know, giving me high fives and offering to buy me drinks. This excited me because that cop totally ruined my buzz. Mollie convinced me it wasn’t the best idea to stay which I agree with now, but at the time I really couldn’t understand her logic. So I got a few more hugs and high fives from fellow drunken strangers and then we were off.

We got back to Mollie’s she shared with me that she was offered a job there as a bartender, which she took. I didn’t know how to take this. I wasn’t sure if it was good news or bad news after the night I just had. And then I came to my senses and said of course its good news.

The next morning Mollie came out to the couch where I was sleeping and could do nothing but smile, laugh a little, and shake her head as she sat down next to me. I only had one thing to say with a goofy hung over smile on my face with smeared make up and bench head.

“You’re working tonight….right?”