Is My Bow Too Big? How I Went From Saturday Night Live to the Tea Party (17 page)

…but something good must happen

when the kids are in bed,

or I’d be somewhere else instead!

The last thing on my mind is politics.

I’ve never voted. Politics is a corrupt system where people scream at each other. My major concerns involve keeping my family happy and safe and getting Paul to move to LA. I’m a prisoner. I’ve been living in Miami against my will. You see, what happened was, first I had to divorce my ex-husband, A.F.K.A.S., “the artist formerly known as Satan.” I don’t think the Bible says anywhere that it’s a sin to take Satan’s name in vain. Besides, Satan is an appropriate nickname for my ex-husband because he was a fire-eater. He ate fire for a living. He made about $100 a year. I saw his income tax return.

Most of it he spent on supplies, like disposable lighters, throat lozenges, kerosene, torches, and fire-retardant hair spray. When we got divorced I got half of his stuff: a Bic lighter. I keep it as a memento. There are perks to being a fire-eater: you don’t have to trim your nose hair, or eyebrows, and you don’t become a workaholic. There isn’t much demand for fire-eaters.

He worked about one day a year. Once, he worked two days in a row and was so exhausted he had to sleep two weeks to catch up. It wasn’t that he wasn’t ambitious. He advertised in the Yellow Pages under Fire Eating Man. The ad was between Fire Arms and Fire Extinguishers, so he got a lot of calls from criminals and from people whose houses were on fire.

So now I’m in Miami. There are only three types of people in Miami: Cuban, retired, and naked. Since I don’t fit into any of those categories, I’m lonely. Sometimes, you’ll meet someone who’s all three—a Cuban, retired, naked person. I said, “Paul, why do we have to live here? There are no seasons, it’s hot and humid, and no one speaks English.”

Living in the projects (I mean, the suburbs), made me pray a lot. My condo was nice, but the view was of another building. One day the phone rang, and Kevin Nealon (my fellow cast-mate from SNL whom I hadn’t seen in five years) asked me to open for him in Las Vegas. I told him I didn’t have an “act,” but he said I only needed twenty minutes of semi-funny jokes. I realized that I could start making money again and maybe Paul and I could buy a house. My divorce from A.F.K.A.S. had left me broke. I figured it was better than working at McDonald’s:

“Can I take your order?”

“Yes, I’d like a cheeseburg… you look like that girl from
SNL
…”

“Can I take your order, please?”

“You sound like that girl from
SNL
! Chee-burger, chee-burger! Ha ha!”

“You want a cheeseburger?”

“Man, you really sound like her!”

“Jackson! What’s taking you so long?! You’re fired!”

When Kevin called me, I’d forgotten how to perform. I was shy and overweight from a pregnancy. I’d forgotten how to be confident. I watched tapes of my first Johnny Carson appearances and rehearsed my old material, which included a handstand. I started practicing my handstand in our 6’ x 6’ living room. I was thirty-four. I had a custom bustier made for me that was two sizes bigger than the one I used on
SNL
; then I dug up my beautiful, dinged up Martin baritone ukulele, and went out on the road once a month from 1997 until 2009, when gigs seemed to dry up. This was due to my outspoken conservative activism, the economy (who has money for a comedy club when they are losing their house?), or maybe the two cities I hadn’t been to yet heard my act wasn’t funny.

I do things upside down. Most people do stand-up for twelve years and then get their own show. I did it backwards. I had three favorite gigs during this time. The first was
The Rio
in Vegas, where Lovitz and I opened for Nealon and Norm McDonald. My hotel suite was on the top floor. I had five rooms and a private, heated pool outside that overlooked the whole strip. I had to swim naked in it, of course, under the stars. It would have been a sin not to. My wide-eyed four-year-old thought it was an outdoor bath tub. My husband was speechless. My second favorite gig was getting a lot of money to do one skit with Nealon and Hammond for Steve Jobs’ birthday! The third was getting a lot of money to open for Hall and Oates at a nurses’ convention. That duo was the soundtrack of my romantic college years.

The hardest job I ever had was motherhood. It’s mostly driving a lot, plus the food battle. Mommy says: “If you eat five carrots, you can have a popsicle.” Two hours later: “Okay, if you eat three carrots, you can have two popsicles.” Two hours later: “Okay, if you eat
one
carrot, you can have
three
popsicles.”

The phone keeps ringing. The cat’s butt hangs over the side of his litter box, and Mommy watches his pee-pee flood the floor. The Science Fair project is lying all over the living room. One child tips backward off a chair and hits the sliding glass door. Folding the laundry, I realize I have no underwear. I never wear any, not because I’m sexy, but because I can’t find any. Now, not only does the washer eat one sock of every pair, it also eats my underwear. Mommy is dreaming of lying next to Paul on the seaside, waves crashing, both of us naked, skinny—well, he is always muscular and perfect. Oh, he’s so perfect… he… crashes open the ironing board to iron his cop uniform. He prepares for work. He changes the TV channel to Wolf Blitzer to watch the war. Paul says, “Wolf Blitzer. That is the greatest name. Wolf. Blitzer. Vicki, whenever we’re in public, call me Wolf Blitzer. No Stone Phillips, no Dack Rambo. No, Wolf Blitzer is the best.” Paul sticks all his guns, and flashlights, and pens, and walkie-talkies into his pockets, drinks the last of his Crystal Light Peach Tea, carefully takes two cigars out of his humidor and puts them in his zippered cigar carrying case, grabs the Miami Herald, clears his throat, kisses us and says “Be careful” fifty times, then slams the door and locks it fifty times. Aubrey changes the channel back to Nickelodeon, and fake, happy voices start shrieking across the late, late night air. I snap back into reality, and beg, “If you eat five popsicles, I’ll give you zero carrots.”

She happily agrees.

Each day of motherhood is a continuation of a swirling, paisley pattern of vibrant colors and bursting, transforming, kaleidoscope designs. The sweetness and laughter is all mixed up with the chores, sickness, and responsibility, so that at least two different human emotions are harmonizing at full instrumental vibration at all times in this warbling symphony orchestrated by love. I’m already trapped in this concert hall; I might as well have more babies. I call Paul: “Paul, can we have another baby?”

“I already have three kids—Scarlet, Aubrey, and you. And you’re the most work.”

“Can we have a puppy? You won’t let me have another baby.”

We go to the pet shop in Hialeah. Our picture is displayed next to the cash register—a picture of me and the kids with a big red diagonal line across us and the words: “D
o
N
ot
S
ELL
A P
ET
T
O
T
HESE
P
EOPLE
.”

Aubrey kept the hamster in her pocket and made it do ballet. She traumatized our cat so badly in its formative years that now it just tries to blend in with the furniture (camouflage and diversion techniques). Our goldfish were poisoned when Scarlet put two drops of chlorine instead of one into the tank. We should have a daily “pet delivery and retrieval” service. Everything we touch dies. We have had so many pets, we’re calling them by the wrong names now: “That’s not Fluffy, honey. Fluffy was four dogs ago.”

“Mommy, can I put the hamster in the pool to see if he can swim?” I could’ve made a coat out of the hamster pelts we’ve buried. We’re running out of names for dogs. I had to buy a name book.

“Honey, what do you think of the name, Chow Chow?”

“We used that one. Diving board incident.”

“Tinky Winky?”

“Had that one. Remember the tangled leash?”

“Oh yeah. How about Buffy No.16?”

Paul says, “No, I’m getting tired of the name Buffy.”

It seems I always got a puppy when I got the urge to get pregnant. But I couldn’t train them because I couldn’t say “No!”

A high school friend, Bob, killed himself a year after I saw him at our twenty-year high school reunion. At the gas station on the way to his funeral, I was very stressed out and accidentally dropped the gas hose nozzle on my right foot. It swelled throughout the day until I couldn’t press the gas pedal, so I drove with my left foot. I drove to the germ-infested ER, and took my video camera with me because I didn’t want to leave it on the car seat. My six-year-old had a balloon tied to her braid because we had just come from my Dad’s gymnastic circus recital after the funeral. My teenager had on my high heels because I couldn’t put my swollen foot in them. I was wearing her sneakers. On her cheerleader shorts, it said CH on one butt cheek, and EER on the other. She looked like a child prostitute. The emergency room cop (they have cops in there because it’s Miami), recognized me, “Oh, ha ha! Are you doing a TV skit? Ha ha!”

I had no blood on me, and just a limp, so I guess people thought I was there to make a video and make fun of them. At midnight, after hours of waiting next to groaning, dying, diseased people, who the health(don’t)care employees keep waiting because they don’t give a rip, my six-year-old asked me to untie the balloon from her hair.

The balloon popped! Everyone jumped because it sounded like gunfire. The cop went into position. All fifty sick people looked around until their eyes landed on my daughters and me. Our faces were red. I giggled nervously, shrugged, and limped the busted balloon and ribbon to the garbage so all could see we were safe now. The cop shook his head and put his gun away. Everyone stared at us with annoyance. Aubrey whispered to me, “Mommy, can we leave now?”

An old groaning man said, “It wasn’t even the kid. It was the mother.”

I was so insulted I jumped out of the wheelchair, limped out of the ER all the way to my car and drove home with my left foot. I ate some aspirin and let my foot heal deformed.

I killed myself a little every day with chardonnay. There were a couple of brain cells I really wanted dead, but I found alcohol wasn’t a smart bomb. It was like carpet-bombing. It killed indiscriminately and it seemed to have avoided those two cells I wanted murdered. One cell had to do with my early breast nondevelopment, and the other was my career ambition. I hoped for a future where doctors could prescribe smart drugs that pinpointed the source of my pain and eradicated it.

I think I was trying to commit suicide, but I was not committed. I decided to go to therapy. I was sixteen when I first had therapy.

Going to Therapy

“Imagine you are on an island… the sky is blue… and you’re very relaxed…18…17…16…” the hypnotist murmured as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

My parents had sent me to this guy to rid me of what they believed to be a potentially deadly oral fixation. Every night I’d fall asleep with hard candy in my mouth. They were afraid I’d choke on it. I’d wake up with it stuck in my hair. I also incessantly chewed gum and bit my nails. So I’m trying to get hypnotized, and this fat guy is chain-smoking.

“14…13…12…” I’m thinking,
How can I relax? I hate the beach. The beach is the source of all my problems. That’s where Dad made me and the team perform tricks in our bathing suits, on the pier, for strangers.

“10… 9… 8… you’re relaxed, the sun is shining…”
Of course the sun is shining, this is South Florida!

“…a gentle breeze is blowing…” I hear Dad shouting, “Do another front flip Vicki! And suck your stomach in!”

“6… 5… 4… now you have no desire to suck, chew, or bite anything…” My eyes peek open. I watched the therapist take a drag. A long drag. It looks so peaceful and relaxing… blowing in and out… and in and out…

“3… 2… 1…”

“This isn’t working,” I say. “I don’t think I can go under.”

He says, “Oh, some people can’t be hypnotized.”

I pay him $200, and as I shut the door I have my first urge for a cigarette.

My second therapy experience occurred when I began having jealousy problems in LA. I’m in this guy’s house that my agent recommended, and he’s moving boxes while I’m talking. He asks, “What’s your problem?”

“Well,” I say. “I’m a Baptist who just gave my virginity to my promiscuous, hippie, drug-dealing boyfriend, and his ex-girlfriends keep coming over and I get insanely jealous.” This therapist looks me in the eye and says, “Well, there’s a difference between f**king and making love.” I paid him, ran to my car crying and saying the f-word, and almost caused a car accident.

My third therapy experience was with a perfect blonde man with a professorial blonde beard. He smiles at me. He’s my handsome neighbor who just hung out a shingle that says “Healing Center” on his gorgeous New England clapboard home. His office is in the back. On the center of the coffee table is a mortar and pestle: the symbol of healing. New Age music is playing. A fire is lit. Outside, autumn leaves float down. Wind chimes are jingling. It’s like
Weekend in New England
therapy. In Connecticut, everything is perfect. This was my last attempt at saving our crumbling marriage. The therapist asks A.F.K.A.S. and I why we want to get divorced, and I say, “Well, he’s a pathological liar who drinks too much, and never speaks to me, and slams the door in my face when I come home from work. I think he’s having an affair. He’s never had a job, and he ‘gets sick’ every time I invite company over. He’s a lousy father. He’s jealous of my success. I think he’s doing drugs, and he’s a very scary person!”