And You Were There And You Were There...

Finally, the crushing fatigue has abated. On Sunday, I wasn't sure that was ever going to happen. After a 13-hour drive home from Georgia, I found myself sitting on our couch moaning an oddly uncontrollable moan. I have a vague recollection of being tucked in by my husband before slipping into a nine-hour coma. Yet, the next day, I still took a trip to Napland.

Yesterday, was better but I still felt like I was just getting over the flu even though I didn't have the flu. Today, I'm almost normal.

Physical therapy is a bitch! Who knew that holding a small movement for ten seconds would make me want to leap from a tall building in a single bound but not in a Superman kind of way. It's only been one week. Let's hope it gets easier.

I have good news which I'm legally obligated not to discuss. Damn, damn, double damn, 'cause I really really want to blab. Oh well, here are some other minor good things that have been happening.

I've lost 8 pounds on my low-carb diet. Plus I've discovered that you can eat quite well while still cutting back on carbohydrates. On Monday, we had lamb with blue cheese butter and grilled Romaine. For dessert, hubby added a splash of bourbon to low fat/sugar free butterscotch pudding. Take that Jenny Craig!

In news only women will appreciate, I found another pair of my favorite stage shoes. A few years ago, I paid $6 for $198 Via Spiga heels at a thrift shop in Pittsburgh. They are, without a doubt, the most comfortable heels I've ever owned so they are my go-to shoes when I have to go-to work. But, even after several trips to the shoemaker, I can tell their time is almost up. The heel is wiggly again which is the shoe equivalent of breaking a hip.

I've been searching for months for a replacement and lucked out on Ebay. This time I'm paying $70 (with shipping) but on average it's still on $38 per pair or $19 per shoe.



The ones I currently own are black and white. I hope I like the cream color when I see them in person. Oh great, now I have the Michael Jackson song "Black or White" stuck in my head. Perhaps I'm more tired than I realize.

Crazy Tired

Every few minutes I have to remind myself what day it is. Wednesday, right?

We had an absolute blast at the Last Comic Standing auditions in New York on Monday but it was a grueling day.

Yesterday, we walked several miles from our hotel near Wall Street to Madison Square Garden (this substituted as a workout) to catch our bus back home. Seeing all those eager workers strolling past the hole still left by the World Trade Center gave me hope for our country. Americans will never go down without a fight. Our government may, but our people won't.

We had averaged three hours sleep a night for several days so we were walking zombies. But, we still managed to find the energy to go see Michael Medved, Bill Bennett and Michael Gallagher have a good-natured debate at the Keswick Theater just outside Philadelphia. Again, it gave me hope for our country.

Today, I have my first physical therapy session. I have a feeling I'm not going to do well. About an hour ago, I was so tired and unsteady, I walked into a wall.

This should be fun.

Last Comic Standing

I suppose I shouldn't be getting drunk the night before an 11 AM audition in New York for Last Comic Standing but I'm so depressed about this whole health care debacle that I feel the need to consume large quantities of red wine.

We had a great weekend in Buford, Georgia. On Saturday night, an old Jr. High School buddy and his lovely wife came to our show. It turns out he lives a few blocks away and he came to the club not knowing I was one of the performers.

When my husband asked him from stage what I was like as a teenager he said, "She was easy." Of course, that is a blatant falsehood but it did get a huge laugh from the crowd.

It was a fun night. Tonight, however, not so much. A fellow comic put it well when he said he feels like it's 9/11 all over again. I agree.

Oops, it looks like I could use a little more vino.

Stupid Stupid Arm 2

I have a radial head fracture which sounds like the name of an Indie band.

Yesterday, I had a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon who suggested I try to avoid surgery. That's kind of like having a vegetarian say, "Try the veal."

Apparently, they would have to re-break and do a bunch of other nasty things that I'd rather not think about. Instead, we're going to try physical therapy. I have my first session on Wednesday.

I am uninsured which, I have found, makes medical people nervous even when you wave around a check book and a credit card. Through each step of the process, various folks have said to me, "Would you like to apply for charity?" They've done this without even asking about my financial situation. I began to think, "How bad off do I look?"

So far, this whole ordeal has cost me about $700. That includes the X-rays at the urgent care center, a visit to my GP, another round of X-rays and a visit with an orthopedic surgeon which includes a follow-up visit. With physical therapy and another round of X-rays, I'm probably looking at another $400-500 before this is over. Assuming of course, I won't eventually need surgery.

Now, I don't exactly have $1200 to burn (and this probably means we won't be going on vacation this year) but it's really not much money considering I may regain use of my arm. Most people spend that much on cable in a year.

When the doctor tried to bust my chops about not having health insurance I said, "This is going to cost me far less than insurance premiums." He said, "I guess you're right." You're damn right I'm right.

In fact, $1200 is only two months of premiums here in Jersey.

If Congress passes Obamacare this week it'll be a crime against our country. Allowing me to buy catastrophic insurance across state lines is all the help I want.

If Obama really wants to help this nation, he'll sink research money into why the medical community is allergic to cash.

Stupid Stupid Arm

It's never a good sign when the X-ray technician sticks her head into the waiting room and says, "You need to go right back to the doctor." It's also never a good sign when the receptionist at your doctor's office says, "You need to go to an orthopedic doctor."

My appointment is for 1 PM tomorrow. From what I can piece together, I have a fracture. Sure wish they had figured that out 5 1/2 weeks ago.

1,000 Pounds Or Bust

I've always admired goal-oriented people.

An obese mother in the US is trying to put on weight in order to become the world's fattest woman.

You go, girl!

Donna Simpson already holds the title of World's Fattest Mother but she's not going to let some childless bee-atch continue to roam the Earth as the World's Fattest Woman. Hell no! Not this go-getter!

Ms Simpson, who needs a mobility scooter to go shopping, eats huge amounts of junk food each week and tries to move as little as possible so she doesn't burn off as many calories.

Hmmm, perhaps "go-getter" was not the best description.

In order to win the chubby crown, Simpson will need to consume 12,000 calories per day. In contrast, the recent Miss America consumed 12,000 calories per year.

In order to pay for the enormous amounts of food she is eating — her weekly grocery bill is $815 — Ms Simpson makes money by running a website where men pay to watch her consume fast food.

And that's the beauty of of the internet. A fat New Jersey broad can finance her slow but certain death with credit card payments from a bunch of housebound pervs who don't realize special sauce is supposed to be a euphemism and not... well, you know... special sauce.

I've decided that I'm also going to attempt to be the World's Fattest Woman. So, when people see me they'll be forced to say, "Well, it doesn't look like it's going very well. You're still so thin."

1200 Miles Roundtrip

Spending 10 hours in a car on a Sunday can be grueling if you only have terrestrial radio because religious music, bad local talk and paid programming about vitamins and chelation therapy dominate the airwaves. Catching the Puzzle Master on NPR will kill a good 15 minutes but the rest of the time is spent scanning, moaning and scanning some more.

Occasionally, we'll stop off at a Goodwill to buy a $3 used CD. This time we picked up "Wakafrika" by Manu Dibango. Unfortunately, reading the liner notes was making me car sick so hubby was frustrated by not having information as he was listening. "Where is he from in Africa? What year was this recorded? Is that King Sunny Ade?"

"I don't know, I can't read without my glasses and I'm going to hurl." I think we only heard 30 seconds of each song before he hit eject.

Luckily, our most recent rental car came equipped with XM/Sirius. We love C-Span's rebroadcast of Meet The Depressed and This Is Weak Even Without George Stephanopoulos because we yell at the radio, turning our vehicle into a moving Mystery Political Science Theater 3000.

But, our absolute favorite "stuck in the car all day" program is an old-time rerun of Casey Kasem's America's Top 40. Although, since my husband's impression of Casey Kasem sounds more like Clark Gable, we call it Clark Gable's America's Top 40.

The Week of March 11,1972 show was surreal, featuring such varied artists as Donny Osmond, Gary Glitter and Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose. Sometimes it was Sonny & Cher, other times it was just Cher... never was it just Sonny. (Hubby knows better than to ever let me listen to a broadcast from 1976 because there is an extremely high probability that we'll hear my least favorite song, "Hotel California." He says the Eagles' classic makes me react the same way Curly Joe does when he hears "Pop Goes The Weasel.")

I was seven in 1972 so, naturally, Chuck Berry's "My Ding-A-Ling" was one of my favorite songs. Even then, I liked a good dick joke.

El Paso

I still can't straighten my arm, but I can bend it well enough to finally practice the guitar again. Not sure if it's good for my arm-- or my neighbors-- or my self-esteem.

Hubby is happy to have me back in our little guitar club. To celebrate my return, we've decided to learn Marty Robbin's El Paso so we can play it as a duet.

Already we're arguing over the harmonies. For a guy, he has an annoying habit of wanting to hit the high notes. Not once have we ever made it through Don't Go Breakin' My Heart without him veering into the Kiki Dee part. It's just one of the many reasons why we'll never sing karaoke together in public. Well, that and the fact that we despise karaoke.

I love Mary Robbins. His songs are all so passive/aggressive. I'm always yelling to the love interests in his songs, "Get a restraining order!"

In this performance of El Paso, Robbins is either bored, drunk or bat-shit crazy. Although, hubby pointed out that Robbins kind of looks like Matthew McConaughey who also is either always bored, drunk or bat-shit crazy.

Regardless, it's a great song and one which, I am sure, we will thoroughly butcher.

It's Just A Number

The oldest American, Mary Josephine Ray passed away after roaming this Earth for 114 years and 294 days. The second runner-up, who has now been crowned the oldest American (since Mary Josephine Ray can no longer fulfill her duties, for obvious reasons) is Neva Morris, of Ames, Iowa, at the ripe young age of 114 years, 216 days.

I'm happy for Neva Morris. Can you imagine how awful it's been for her to know that she only missed out the title of Oldest American by a mere 78 days? I hope she enjoys her new found position. Although, how can she ever really feel comfortable with a bunch of 113-year-olds breathing (albeit laboredly) down her neck.

I don't think I want to live to be 114. That would mean I would be alive for another 70 years. I wouldn't die until 2080!

Some time around 2050, I'm going to completely let myself go. I'll overeat, drink staggering amounts of alcohol and only leave my bed when I jump out of a plane on each birthday.

At least if I live to 114, I'll die as the oldest, fattest, drunkest, laziest daredevil in America. Take that you pussy 113-year-olds!

Asheville Postscript

First show Saturday, I had one of those comedy moments that will stay with me for the rest of my comedy life.

About 4-5 minutes into my set, I ended a joke using the word "titty." For some reason, this made a guy in the front row laugh so hard he spit his beer on me.

Since I am the one who is making the jokes, rarely do I genuinely laugh hard while I'm performing. But, I howled. The guy was mortified, my pants were wet and it produced one of the longest sustained audience reactions I've experienced in quite some time.

Reluctantly, the gentleman told me his name is Nathan. He continued to be a good sport throughout the show even though I referred to him a number of times. At one point, a bunch of drinks fell off a table in the back of the room. Another audience member yelled, "Nathan?!" We all howled again.

When I got home Sunday night, I had received Facebook friend requests from both Nathan and his boyfriend, Raymond. After a few back and forth postings, I discovered that Raymond and I are from the same neighborhood in Philadelphia.

He lived only a few blocks from my grandmother's house. Even though I am 11 years his senior, there is still a good possibility that we saw each other at the playground, at the supermarket or while heading to school.

How strange that in 2010, we would be in Asheville, NC, laughing because his boyfriend covered me with lager.

That's why I love traveling all over this great land of ours doing comedy. You never know who you're going to meet.

We're in Asheville, NC

As evidenced by the coverage in the Asheville Citizen-Times.

It plays on everyone's fear of speaking in front of people. It's like the No. 1 fear, in front of snakes, heights, you name it. (And in standup comedy) you don't just have to speak in front of people, you have to make them laugh.

Plus when you're saying something you think is funny, and people don't laugh, most people take that personally. You can't do that. You have to leave the ego at home.

Two shows down, two to go!

The Mean Reds

I'm tired of having a cold, I'm tired of my arm hurting and I'm tired of being tired.

I'm going to pour a second glass of bourbon and soak in tub full of epsom salts.

Tomorrow, we hit the road for a few days. Maybe a couple of gigs will help me feel better. Although, that didn't seem to work last week or the week before.

Argh!!!

My New Favorite Commercial

The World's Worst Product InThe World

The first time Marc Anthony's Pro Root Touch-Up failed to touch-up my roots, I naturally assumed I had done something wrong. After all, products go through rigorous testing before hitting the shelves, don't they? Surely, Clairol would have noticed all the gray monkeys and rabbits in their labs.

A few hours ago, I gave the product another try. I'm still basically operating with one hand, so my husband was called in to assist. Since he approached the task with military precision, I knew there would be no errors on our part.

The result? I have a head full of gray roots.

If there were an Island of Misfit Products, I would gladly hop on an iceberg and take it there myself.

What good is hair dye that doesn't dye? It's like buying glue that doesn't stick, foul-smelling air freshener or condoms that are pre-broken for her pleasure.

Oh well, at least I look cute in my hat.