Live From Las Vegas

I live in Las Vegas now, which makes me a Las Vegan even though I am hardly a vegan as I had bacon earlier at the buffet. For over ten years, I was a New Yorker. My colon and my mouth were as dirty as the subways I rode. I would call the subway quick and dirty, but when the trains are being rerouted it’s slow and dirty. The thing about New York that most people don’t understand is millions of different people from different backgrounds are crammed so closely together it’s a miracle folks don’t flip their shit and kill each other. In the summer when it’s sweltering, it’s not just a mere miracle but rather an act of God.

Being a Las Vegan, I now take a car. No, I don’t drive. Hell, I don’t even have a license because ten years in New York I didn’t need one. Instead I am the mooch who gets rides from other people. I’ll do them a favor in exchange for the ride. The thought of learning how to drive is scary and exciting. I haven’t been behind a wheel in a minute, but New York has made me testy. Someone cuts me off and I just go on a blue streak. People out here don’t swear as much as New Yorkers though. Maybe they will have a bleep button handy.

I am used to the subway. When it’s crowded there is the downside of the germs of strangers all over you. Upside, when it is cold those same germs and halitosis keep you warm. In New York there is constant entertainment on the subway, from folks practicing their craft to homeless people with a creative hustle to get a dollar. We have street performers in Vegas, but the homeless out here aren’t nearly as creative. Not knocking someone’s right to exist but the homeless in New York work on those pitches and they know how to deliver. If I had my druthers, I would bring some of them into a network meeting with me to sell my ideas.

The subway is also a good place to reset. I have cried on many a New York City subway after a bad audition, bad set, and bad breakup and I have had more of all three than I want to admit. Most people leave you to cry alone anonymously with the circus inside your head. Every once in a while someone says, “I know you are having a bad day and I hope it gets better.” That moment of kindness makes you realize your misery is temporary and mostly self-brought, and if you stop being such an idiot it will get better.

Back in the day when I lived downtown I would jog across the Brooklyn Bridge and the subway would rumble next to me. The Throwback at Noon on Hot 97 blaring out my ears. My feet would hit the pavement and the angst would leave my system. Angst that I would never be a good ventriloquist comedian, angst that people would always laugh at me and shut the door in my face, angst that I couldn’t conquer New York or do this adult thing for real, angst over some moron I had the hots for. Yes, and they wanted to charge me as an adult.

The subway next to me always brought me back to reality, the reality that the bridge could collapse and I would die upon hitting the East River. Neuroses aside, it made me take a breath. It made write notebooks filled with bad jokes after my run. It made me shower and hit an open mic where I often bombed, but kept getting up to eventually craft a routine and my hard work started to shut a lot of idiots up. I channeled some of my angst into an online blog on a now defunct site for comedians where I overshared and sometimes lacked humility but was never without brutal candor when it came to myself. People read it and complimented my writing. They also let me know the adult thing is overwhelming forever and it is. You just learn not to take it personally. As for the morons I thought I had the hots for, all were bullets I dodged that were dumb enough to marry women who make them miserable. Hey, we all get what we deserve.

Now here I am in a new city with new challenges. So far there is no place I have found where I can cry anonymously. Sure, there is no one on the sidewalk and that dream can become a reality, but then there’s sunshine and scenery and so much for the anonymous cry. Then I can’t anonymous cry at my house because I live with four other people. Sure, I could shut a door but then two dogs come and sit by me, forcing me to pet them and then give me doggy kisses filled with love. Then I realize it’s useless to anonymous cry because I am feeling a sensation I don’t think I ever felt in New York City……..happiness. So then I decide to scrap the anonymous crying and focus on the future that feels as bright and warm as the sunshine surrounding me.

I have gained 6 pounds since moving here, the buffet and bacon not helping. However, I feel better than I have probably ever. I had fun debuting my new one woman show, April Unwrapped, and am ready for more adventures. Driving is scary but it might also be fun. It will be a new way to see the world and if this happy thing wears off and I need an anonymous cry, the car might be a good place to do it.  But as I mentioned this happy thing might stick. I did a show last night and no curse words. Maybe both happy and Las Vegas are going to stick.

Regardless, the sun is out for a short time and two doggies wanna play. While I’ve had fun talking to you, I gotta go play with my four legged friends and be HAPPY. No anonymous crying today. 

Some Jingle Jangle Morning (Mary Lou Lord)

The other day, I got a call from a friend I have kind of become close to in this past year. We knew of each other, but only recently started to hang out more. This past year he went through a terrible divorce with an ex wife who is a real bitch for lack of a better word. The woman fights dirtier than Mike Tyson did in the Holyfield fight. She'll go for the ear.

She did a cheap shot when it came to the house they shared. She an underhanded play when it came to getting custody of his son, lying to the court about how he had a drinking problem which he doesn't. She's an asshole who wants to win at all costs, even if it means using her kid to do so. Not to mention she intentionally quit her job so he would have to pay her alimony. YUCK!

So he was forced out of his house, and moved into an apartment. He misses seeing his little boy terribly every day. I wanted to name their divorce saga Beauty and the Bitch, because this troll has successfully poisoned all of their mutual friends against him, too. Not to mention she has done things to put his career as a musician (he plays concert piano) in crisis several times.


He called me in a daze late Saturday to talk. He was getting used to an empty apartment. He felt lonely. He felt empty. He felt weird. He felt pissed his ex wife had a new boyfriend. No, he didn't miss her. He was pissed this woman was bringing a man he never met around his kid. And his ex wife moved her new boyfriend in. This stranger had taken his place. Yet he was also glad to be rid of the troll he was married to for 15 years.

 It is the pallet of feelings that goes with change.

While my situation is different than his and I don't understand, I identify. You can read my previous blogs to know what I mean. Either way, it felt good to be a listening ear. Change is weird. Change is scary.

Change.

I think in a way that's what attracted me to my current living situation. My landlord, who is very different from my buddy, grew up in NYC when it was really NYC. His stories are colorful. He managed a strip club. As a kid, he and his friends went with the hookers in the neighborhood who would give them free rides. He also had women throwing their underwear in his car. Apparently he was a hit when he was young.

Then he met his ex wife. Yes, she pursued him. Got him gifts. When he tried to break up with her, she hung out with his mom. Then finally after 10 years, 2 kids, and a bunch of changes in her psych meds he left. Now she tries to poison his kids against him. The woman plays ugly too. He wants his teenage  kids to go to college, do something with themselves. She tries to undermines his efforts. She sucks as a human.

When I moved in, it was his family home and he was in between jobs. He was figuring out how to be a single parent to teen boys. He was leaving early to make sure they got to school each morning, because their mother could have cared less. Sure, he's obsessed with UFOs and believes the conspiracy that Michelle Obama is a man, but he's a good dude. Either way, he is looking for work now, and trying to figure out what to do.

Change.

Heck, things have changed for me. A year ago I was talking about getting married. My living situation was much different. And it also looked like I was moving to Europe because I was getting press there, and a few managers even expressed interest.

I had the whole pallet of feelings as shit hit the fan. We always do. Not only was my then boyfriend ripped away by the throws of mental illness and the consequences of the choices of someone who doesn't follow through with treatment, but my heart was ripped out of my chest. My living situation, one that I had been in happily for nearly a decade, went belly up. Thinking about the loss of my last apartment makes me angry but also makes my stomach turn. Europe also went belly up because no one could successfully get me a Visa, and if I was going I was going as a headliner.

A year later, things are very different. Some good, some bad.

My new living situation is safer and cheaper, but the 7 train is a fucktard at times.

As for my ex, I have mostly forgiven him for some of the damage he's done, but the mixed feelings are still there. I get angry, but then I have to tell myself he's sick literally one hundred times. Then I remember his kindnesses, and even his sister said despite his troubles he was the kindest person she knew. Suddenly there is a part of me that misses him, not even to have him back as a lover but just a friend. That's when I remember he can't be trusted and isn't a safe person.

I also get angry about the idiots that weighed in on my living situation and break up. They are out of my life like the human cancers they were.

Obviously I didn't go to Europe, but I am steadily becoming a regular headliner in the states. I am working with wonderful people. My career is not where I want it yet, but it is getting there. Not to mention that while my bank account might not know about how famous I am in some circles, I enjoy comedy more than I have in years. I love getting onstage again.

Sure, the cancer scare sucked but it woke me up and now I am eating better than ever.

Losing everything and applying for aid made me have those difficult money conversations, especially those about the future. Now I'm not scared and want to learn more about how to manage my money.

As I was drinking coffee in an East Village diner hearing two girls bullshit before my 7:45 AM delivery, it felt surreal because that had been my stomping ground in college. I was a Manhattite always and forever. My mom even called me Manhattan Barbie. Alas, nothing is forever.

Thank God nothing is forever. Had shit not hit the fan I wouldn't have gone to the RNC to be a part of history. I wouldn't be working with the cool people I am now. I wouldn't be having fun each time I get onstage. I talk to people about getting paid, and am not a nice girl when it comes to dough. I am more fearless about telling people to get fucked. I am vocal when I have a concern about something whether it's my manager or landlord. I don't wait until my back is against the wall when I can no longer run from the monster.

When the smoke clears, that is when you can truly appreciate the miracle.

My Brand New Place

It has been two whole weeks since I moved into my new digs. The first week was hectic with me getting settled and all. My room was filled with boxes. When we were kids, Skipper, Wendell, and I had a box structure known as Gotham City. Our parents gave it the tongue and cheek nickname because they were remodelling our kitchen, they had leftover boxes, and we made a maze. Of course a groundhog got in there and that was the end of our fun.

These days I do live in Gotham City for real. Well more on the outskirts these days in a sister borough, but I live there nonetheless. My first week there were enough boxes in my new room that I thought of fashioning a new Gotham City. I was bummed there was no groundhog for my mother to chase with a baseball bat, and for Wendell to pretend he wasn't scared of.

One thing I do have in my new digs is a yard with SQUIRRELS. Yes, squirrels. When my mom was in town she saw a black squirrel. Apparently, a black squirrel is a genetic mutation and supposedly attacks the rest of the squirrels. So everything is scared of it. I wasn't aware the animal kingdom was so damn racist. Hack joke. Had to. Make fun of me now.

After all that happened, I was glad to spend this past week going to work and coming home. The 7 train at it's best is like a bullet train. These days I am at work faster than I have ever been when I was living in The Kitchen. In the old days I wanted fireworks all the time. Now I am content with calm and hum drum.

I also bombed this past week onstage, had my first shit fit in my room, and semi-cried myself to sleep on my new mattress. When you have a good cry on a mattress that is how you know a place is becoming home. I would even have a crying corner in my kitchen where I downed cookie dough in times of crisis but that might be just a little weird with my male housemates around.

I had a strange conversation with one this week. He's a good guy, divorced dad of two. It started with, "Not to offend you." We all know they are about to offend the shit outta you when they do that. He told me not to put tampons in the toilet. I feared I might have accidentally, because when I had my follow up at the doc's where they scraped my cervix after my cancer scare, I might have dropped my pad in the toilet after a moment of drained shock. But I didn't. Apparently his niece had flushed a tampon and totally overflowed the toilet. Sigh....a special thank you to the awkward fairy for that moment.

This same housemate saw a special about UFOs and NASA, and a scientist insists that the government is keeping the people in the dark. He says not only are there UFOs, but they created the humans as slaves to do their mining work. And that we are all part UFO. I felt this was a reach but my housemate was fascinated by this and felt that this guy wouldn't lie.

Hmmmmm

My other housemate and I had a chat about it. He informed me that yes, our dear housemate has a fascination with UFOs and conspiracies, but at this point kind of watches way too much TV. Still, maybe there are UFOs. We have some strange acting people on this planet. Who knows? Either way, I like them both and my new living situation much better than the one I left. It's entertaining and most importantly, I am safe.

My UFO obsessed housemate and I have kind of bonded. He is a divorcee with two kids, so sometimes when I chat with him, he sees things from my mom's point of view. While I feel sometimes my parents are crazy, maybe they aren't. Maybe they have some points. Maybe UFOs do exist. Who am I to judge anyone?

This past week I purchased two puppets. My puppet family and I are back to normal, although it has been a rough couple of months for us. I feel more protective of them than ever, and I feel we are all working more as a unit than we ever have. But of course, I left a horrific situation. So if someone believes in UFOs and conspiracies and that's it, I'm game.

No one has broken into my room yet and tried to turn on the gas so I might in fact die. No one has followed me around the neighborhood let alone threatened me. All and all, a better start. Best news ever, none of the rejects I entangled myself with from my old neighborhood know where I am.

Work has gone back to normal as well. Friday I found myself learning "Deep in the Heart of Texas" for a gig. I had it perfect on the train. Then I got there and it was perfect for the most part. One recipient had a weird name that I managed to mangle. Well they all did but this was the weird name I thought I had. But the other weird name was the one I was afraid of messing up but that was perfect. So I got the weirder name perfect but mangled the less weird name. Such is life. The medley was alright. Then the ending worked. It wasn't the way I rehearsed it but I gave them the liquor.

After the gig, I was out on the sidewalk second guessing my work and two people passed me, a man and a woman. The guy says, "That was brutal."

The girl says, "Yeah, a complete disaster. That went real wrong real fast."

The low self-esteem bubble began to run in my head. Did they just come from the party where I was the telegram? I had no idea because the place was so dark. Suddenly, I began to feel like dried dog shit on the sidewalk. A lot had gone wrong in my life and it had been a tricky last few months. I hoped they weren't talking about me. I had no clue, no proof, but the bells began to go off. I began to hope they weren't talking about me. With all that went on, I couldn't lose my most consistent survival job.

At that moment I realized I was tired. Weeks of court dates, harassment, stress, and living in hell had taken it's toll. Yeah, I am in a better situation and look like I am sleeping and eating. I look so good now that people don't gasp when they see me because I am too overwrought to eat. But still, I was freaking drained. Change is exhausting.

I figured the best thing I could do was go to bed. I had no proof they were speaking about me, and if they were fuck them. If they had to endure what I just did they would probably be dead. Actually, there are times I am surprised my life hasn't killed me. Maybe it will someday. It's probably going to be my life, some crazed fan, or the wife of an ex lover.

The client did call the next day with a bitch, but their bitch was legit. It wasn't about my performance, but instead about the fact their ungrateful friends didn't thank them for the expensive liquor. So the bitch was about their ungrateful punkage, not my performance.

My new life has lawn flamingos, Christmas kitsch, and neighbors who own their property. Welcome to life outside of Rental Prison aka New York City. Ten minutes outside the city. What am I talking about? I'm still a renter, what am I talking about, Willis?

Of course there are moments I miss the bustle and hustle of Midtown at this time of year. But when I saw my sister Skipper and her fiance Boomer I suddenly remembered how good it was that I could leave. Yes, I got them matching Christmas cookie cutters and a chew toy for their dog son Cooper. Stepping off the train I only wanted to punch every person in front of me. Yeah, don't miss NYC on a Saturday when everyone and their damn mother has the same idea.

The visit was fun, and made me like Central Park now that I wasn't down the street from it. I hung out with everyone again that night, and bring in an internet friend. We had expensive pizza, and then there was some beer involved. Add in an improv ventriloquist show with Officer E at the same pizza spot. Made me love New York all over again. Made me forget about how beat up and tired I felt living in the pressure cooker known as Manhattan. Made me grateful I could have the city and then travel over the bridge to my home.

I of course made my same prediction about how I might die. We had a laugh. Death is always funny. Sunday I went to my new church which is beautiful but feels impersonal. I need a new church boy crush. Of course I talked to my parents who only managed to stress me out mildly.

Then I saw the wife of an ex of mine, who's only completely unhinged, wrote a tweet about me that was only completely crazy. She called me her psychotic enemy. I mean, that's kind of deep because she's the one who constantly harasses me, and I don't care about her really. So yeah, she's reaching kind of deep. And she was angry I moved into what she called "my borough." Wasn't aware it was yours, sweetheart. Thought you shared it with about a million other people but what do I know?

This woman has been out of control for some time and made me question about whether or not to alert law enforcement because with each passing year she gets more aggressive. Then I decided it was a crush. Now that we are in the same borough, her borough, she can finally just kill me and help the sales of my novel and DVD. But first she's gotta buy me dinner. These days apparently she's in therapy. Maybe she's bitching about me now. Ha ha ha.

At that moment I realized that despite all that happened, I was still on track because someone was jealous of me. LOL. But then I decided to celebrate the actual victory like my new comic book being on the shelf this week. YES, new comic book. And the fact I am going to Vegas to work in January again with May Wilson. And my two new puppets. And the fact I am in a magazine again.

Of course this was after accidentally jogging on Northern Boulevard and watching reruns of Beverly Hills 90210. I like highways and I love cheesy teen trash. New home, old habits die hard.

Changes (Bruce Hornsby)

There is only one constant in life and that is change. Yes, the deadly bowling ball of change. It happens, just not as you want it. The Tower is in Tarot is an unwelcome draw in the deck as the castle is crumbling and there is chaos. But sometimes the chaos and disaster bring us to a place we would have never come to on our own.

I have been living The Tower. To make a long story incredibly short I was forced out of my home of nearly a decade. The living situation had become physically, emotionally and mentally abusive as well as draining on my health. The people who called themselves landlords were nothing short of evil, and the people who called themselves property managers were nothing short of profane, vile, and at the very least unprofessional. I was forced to endure hellish conditions that were hazardous to my well being, and was tortured when I said anything. In short, my dream apartment had become a nightmare.

The final straw was when my landlord threatened me. He said point blank, “I will not stop until you are homeless.” As if threatening me was not enough, he began to follow me around the neighborhood keeping a tab on my activities. It made me feel ill, and it made me feel unsafe because he had become so obsessed with my comings and goings. The final straw was when he broke into my apartment knowing I wasn’t home, rifled through my things, and took photos. To make matters worse, he turned on my gas stove. It was one that never worked and he knew this.

When I came home, I found my apartment in disarray and so hot I could hardly breathe in there. A workman who was an illegal immigrant told me what had happened. I was frightened and called my mom crying. She told me to call my dad who suggested I call the cops. The cops came and were horrified, but couldn’t arrest my landlord because the workman would not talk. However, they recognized the things on my stove were melting and suggested I call Con Ed. The cops also suggested that I find somewhere else to go.

I called my friend Nishu gasping for breath. Without missing a beat he said, “You gotta get the fuck outta there as fast as you can!”

That Saturday we got on the computer and began to search for a new place for me and my puppet family. It was hard. It was tedious and my head was pounding from all that had happened. In addition to this, I had a romance end badly to put it mildly. Now I had to escape a living situation that was killing me.

That Sunday I went from place to place looking for a new home. It felt like a strange fog because the West Side was all I had known. It was where my roots were for a better part of a decade. It was where my friends were. What if I never found roots again? What if I had to move in the cold?

I looked at several different places. The first was with an Egyptian family who was obsessed with cleanliness. The second was a pilled out ex-therapist. And the third was a group of roommates I really liked in Spanish Harlem. But it was five floors up. I got outside and felt numb. Looking for a new home really sucked. Fuck you, change. Then of course there was the pad that was more like a college dorm in Chinatown. I liked the people, but I knew I would strangle them if we were forced to live together.

I finally ended up looking at a place off the 7. It was the one ad I almost didn’t answer. However, it was only one flight of stairs instead of the four I was used to enduring. Instead of an apartment building, it was a house. Both my housemates would be straight dudes. One was a divorcee and father of two grown sons. The other was an artist living and painting off a grant. Both seemed like nice guys. The divorcee had inherited the house from his aunt, and his elderly parents lived downstairs. It’s more like a two family deal duplex. So after some thinking, I decided to take it.

Nishu and my friend Isaac helped me move. We packed my boxes and put them in an uber van and off I went to my new destination. The entire time I thought I would feel this bittersweet feeling. Instead, I felt nothing but pure relief. For years I had held on to a living situation with a real estate woman who verbally harangued me any and every time I needed a repair. For years I had dealt with the rising rent and four flights of unforgiving stairs. My joints often so tired after a long day of work, and at times I even crawled up them. And yes, lest we not forget the shit quality, or lack of quality of life I had.

I said it was the address, the location. At what cost, my mental and emotional well being? Having to work like a gerbil to pay a pig landlord who only got richer off of my suffering as he refused to keep his building up? Having to endure conditions that were not only hazardous not only to myself but the health of my puppet family. While I am aware they aren’t human, if they don’t work I don’t work and that’s a problem. Not to mention having to apply for Aid from the Actors’ Fund and replacing 80 percent of what I owned.

The only things that kept me from killing myself was I knew my children and I were going to get out of there and head to greater things. Also, googling myself and finding the throngs of international press we received, and how people in the world were in awe of our eccentricity, oddity, individuality, dedication, and message to the world in general. Also, the emails from bookers and a manager, someone quite important, who was finally interested in working with me. Oh and I cannot forget the emails from my fans. They came almost daily being the only thing keeping me from completely jumping off the roof and giving up.

I also found that my friends and family were there the entire time whether my landlord was choosing to try to evict me because I called the city on him, and they were by the phone each and every time he dragged me to court making me look like a criminal. They also were there when I was like a pinball too wired to speak. I got lucky, I really did.

Of course it was strange because people kept telling me how well my life was going with all the international press I was receiving. Guess you could say baby girl was facebook successful.

When I made the final exit out of my neighborhood to my new place in Queens, it felt like a relief never to be going back there. The feeling finally hit when I crossed the bridge. It felt like relief and hope. Things were finally going to get better. When I pulled up to my new place, I felt a mix of emotions because it was real. I was outta there, but did I do the right thing?

Nishu assured me I was going to be fine, and that I would find a new falafel cart and corner store. I would find a new gym. But it’s so strange getting a new start. I also had to learn my new address and even programmed it into my phone. I felt like a kid on the first day of school when the mom quizzes them, “Okay, what’s your address and phone number? Let’s rehearse this again because they are going to ask you.” And of course mom gives you a card so you can cheat.

Then there are the odd emotions that come with change. I felt this feeling of failure come over me although I hadn’t failed. If anything, I successfully got out of a bad situation. Still, as I walked into The Metropolitan Room, the place where I filmed Broke and Semi-Famous, I felt I would never be at that place again. I felt defeated. Earlier this year, my DVD had been streamed in Finland and I had been on MTV Europe.

In the next gaze I saw my poster from the World Record show and my signature along with May Wilson’s. Yes, I was going to be alright. I could do great things again. Life was just happening to me. I just had to chill out. So I ended up getting onstage and rocking some new material. Going upstairs I saw Annie Ross and said hello. Then off to my new home I went. I had the clamor and sparkles of Manhattan and the peace and serenity of Queens. Best of both worlds.

Then mind you that as a Manhattanite for so long, the numbering system of Queens was odd to me. I didn’t know my way around at all, thank goodness for jogging. As if adjusting to a new home wasn’t hard enough, my mom wanted to come help me move in. I now dreaded she would piss off my housemates. Granted, my mom is a nice lady, but you never know. I really couldn’t move again.

The morning my mom came in, I got a message from my doctor. A test he did for a certain female cancer came back abnormal, and they wanted to do another test. As if the parent visit weren’t stressful enough. Your timing is shit Mom, shit!

The first day of her visit I felt dizzy and snapped at her quite a bit. Between the move and now possible cancer, file under shit I really don’t need. However, I got honest. I came clean. To my pleasant surprise, she was really supportive and called my sister Skipper who’s an ER doc. Skipper has been supportive of me during this ordeal as she has spoken to me in between shifts and sleep is at a premium for her. She told both my mom and I that this was no big deal, and just to relax.

Of course I screamed to my mom, “All I want is a week where I go to work and go home like a normal person! That is all I want! Nothing extravagant!” My mom assured me I was going to get that again. But it just didn’t stop.

And more of a relief, my mom and my housemates hit it off. It was so much so that they didn’t want to see her leave! We actually had a lovely visit where she got me much needed hooks, drawers, and even purchased me a real mattress. I also took her to see my comic books and my World Record Breaking poster. All and all, a nice visit.

Still, the big C, cancer was looming over my head. To give you an idea, some of the female cancers are genetic in my family. Just as my life was getting better I didn’t need to hear I was dying. Fuck me!

Monday the procedure was done without incident, and the doctor told me my test was only slightly abnormal and they were just doing this as a precaution. However, I was to take it easy for the rest of the day. While I was feeling strange speaking about what happened to my male housemates, to my pleasant surprise they were very supportive. One even had a cancer scare himself. It was nice to have companionship on a day where one would ordinarily throw a blanket over their head and cry. While female cancers are degrading at the least and evil in a way cancers that affect men are not, it was nice those around me understood the stress of the ordeal to some degree.

Tuesday was a different story, as I found myself at a magazine release party. Yes, I am in a magazine that is being distributed around NYC and the rest of the country. It was neat because as someone in the magazine people wanted to meet me. They wanted to know all about me and blah, blah, blah. A few people even recognized me from television. In the past this would have been everything. These days I have my health and peace of mind. Recognition and publicity are just extras to the things that are most important. Still, it was kind of cool.

It was cool to see that despite all the shit I had to endure the hardwork was paying off. It was cool to see my article in a magazine. It was cool to see people suck up to me because I had been on television. It was cool to talk about how my children and I were on international television. It was cool to feel like myself again, the girl who googles herself and finds she is getting press all over the world. The girl who’s DVD streamed in Finland. The girl who was on MTV Europe and Telemundo.

Coming home, I left the sparkle and clamor of Manhattan, the showy sister borough to Queens. Sure, my new home is less showy, less glamorous. But I felt a peace and serenity as I got my midnight chicken pita snack. I didn’t feel the dread as I climbed up one flight of stairs. Sure, there were the strange stairs because I dressed a little funny but it is nightfall in New York. Anything goes.

Change.

The next day I found myself at an open mic. I was tired but went anyway because I felt the need to get onstage. Boy did I bomb with this new routine, and some asshole dickhead took a jab at me. I wanted to inform him that I was probably more famous and successful than he would ever dream of being. I wanted to tell my international press credits, international television credits, and list of American credits. I wanted to tell them all I had even gone to Vegas to work and yes, I had just been in a magazine the night before.

But I did a new routine and put it on it’s feet. Comics are comics. All shitty open mics are created equal, and all bad jokes are created equal as well. So are cunty fucks known as comedians. I kicked myself but reminded myself it was a mic. But I still kicked myself. Then I half smiled and became grateful for consistency.

Some things stay the same. 

Wind of Change (Europe)

This past weekend I was home to visit my family. Some it was to get some much needed dental work done, some of it was to see family members. Things were kind of crazy my first day there. I was off the plane, into my mom’s car, and then sitting into the dentist’s chair.

I had the dentist telling me that yeah, I wouldn’t need novacane for my little bottom tooth that was so infected. However, the other two top teeth would need novacane. As she said this, I figured it would be a breeze. Then she started drilling. It was like that scene in the movie Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman. I was expecting her to break out a phony German accent and ask, “Is it safe?”

Finally after a few seconds, and me wincing in pain like a Jew in a Concentration camp that met with the drill of Dr. Mangelev, she asked, “Do you need novacane?” I wanted to yell and scream government secrets that’s how much pain I was in. No wonder torture worked. As she hit my jaw with a needle for novacane kind of hitting my bone I heard her and the hygienist talk about Tim McGraw and his too tight jeans. I wanted to scream at both of them to focus on my damn teeth. The hygienist mentioned there were “more gays than ever on TV. That is why everyone’s jeans are tight.”

No you stupid cow. The gays didn’t just magically appear! These days they get to be themselves without getting locked in a mental institution, and it’s actually against the law to beat them up. Now it is safer and legal to be themselves. Ever thought of that shit?!?! On second thought, nevermind, FOCUS ON MY FUCKING TEETH PLEEEEZZZZEEEE. As I was protesting them, it hit me. My coffee drinking, sugar consuming, and other post-college stupidity put my teeth in this mess. If I would have taken better care of my teeth, I wouldn’t be at the mercy of this woman who missed her calling torturing POWs. Fuck adult responsibility.

Later that night, I went to my parent’s neighbor’s house, The O’Flannery’s. To give you an idea, the O’Flannery’s are super Catholic, but not in that scary way. They are into their faith, but in the way that they also practice what they preach. Generous to a fault, they would give their shirt off their back and last dollar to any stranger that needed it. The O’Flannery’s met my parents when my brother played football with their son Jonah, who is now a priest. Jonah was a few years older than Wendell, and received the calling from God in college. This in addition to a bundle of grandchildren was a blessing for the family after the death of their son, Martin.

A third year medical student at Vanderbilt, Martin had been diagnosed with gastric cancer and died only months later. A handsome fellow with a nice smile and sense of humor, Vanderbilt recently developed a scholarship trust in his name for medical students. The article appeared in the university magazine only days before my visit. I was able to see this because my mother showed me. Also, my sister Skipper is a resident at Vanderbilt so she had given my mother the head’s up, asking if it was the same family.

Either way, The O’Flannery’s were throwing a party to welcome our new neighbors, Greg and Denise. My dad mentioned in passing that they were about my age. It could have been a casual observation, or a slight dig because I live a Princess Pan existence in New York. Because my sister Skipper is on the marriage track with her boyfriend Boomer, my parents have been extra obsessed with my dating life as of late. Puppets apparently don’t count as boyfriends. I had a fiancé when I was younger. Anyone can be married. I don’t know what the big deal is. Most of the time a significant other is just a child who has an adult’s body that you always end up babysitting in my experience.

The second I saw Mrs. O’Flannery I gave her a hug and told her that I saw the article about Martin. She was touched. It’s tough to lose a child. When you lose a spouse you are widowed. When you lose a parent you are an orphan. When you lose a child you have no title. It’s because the pain is too awful for words to describe. Of course, Dr. O’Flannery was there was well. Both were in jovial spirits, ready to cater the dinner party. Originally, my mom was going to try to get me out of it because my schedule had been so busy and I had the shit drilled out of my mouth, but Mrs. O’Flannery told her to bring me. Plus as I mentioned, some of the kindest people you are ever going to meet.

The pain of having the living shit drilled out of my mouth faded as Dr. and Mrs. O’Flannery told stories. I found myself laughing my head off as usual when they talked. They told stories about traveling the world, as Dr. O’Flannery lectured on infectious disease, his area of expertise. They talked about all the places they had gone. Of course, I also met Greg and Denise. They seemed like a nice young couple. Definitely about my age. They had taken the leap to the marriage and house without feeling they were leaping off a cliff. This is how I knew I was outside of New York.

Dinner was fun, and my dad came late because he was working. As dinner progressed, my jaw began to kill me. Yes, the side they stuck the needle in. Plus the last three months of a work schedule that didn’t stop like the drum solo In-Da-Gaga-Davida were catching up to me as well. So I was nodding off. Mrs. O’Flannery offered to let me sleep on her couch. Because we only lived next door, my mom told Mrs. O’Flannery she would walk me home.

I jumped into bed and my jaw hurt again. Yes, I texted my damn mother and dragged her away from the dinner party. Time for King Vicadin. Note: Greg and Denise wouldn’t have to call their mother’s from a dinner party because they were in bed with a medical issue. Yes, I am a Princess Pan.

I ended up having a weird dream where I was in a castle in Germany and partying it up with the World Cup Soccer Team. Pasta II, a local eatery in my hometown, was catering. Then I woke up. Yes, with a slight hangover and stomach ache. Still, the dream was sweet. No wonder people do sexual favors for that shit. Damn. Then as I got sick because it was wearing off, I felt like an idiot. Why? Because it was time for more dental work.

The next dental visit was my bottom teeth. This time I got the doctor that I liked, Dr. McManus. A gay man, we talked about Hope Floats and he made some jokes about my mouth being banged up, and that’s why my jaw hurt. He was kinder and gentler with the drill, although I will admit I still felt like an asshole for doing this to my teeth. Then it hit me, as my mouth was being drilled, I was getting older. If I didn’t start being better to my mouth I wasn’t going to have my teeth. That’s a sucky realization actually. Still, Dr. McManus mad me laugh and made my dental angst not so terrible.

Later that day came some updates in family drama. My Aunt Amelia, who is developmentally disabled/learning disabled, is between houses. She lived with my grandparents and took care of them I their final days. Anyway, my grandparents house had to be sold, and when it was being shown my Aunt Amelia was living in her car. This was about as terrible as you could imagine. She hasn’t worked in years, both a combination of a bad last boss but also because being my grandparents in home caretaker has been her full time duty. She was there when they both passed, which was this last year, months apart from each other. The house was left to her, but unfortunately the upkeep would be too expensive to take care of. 

Right now, Amelia is living with another aunt of mine. Of course, part of my duty this weekend was reconstructing her resume. It’s because now that she is going to be on her own, she needs a job. In looking for apartments for my aunt, her request was a backyard for a fairy garden. Yes, she goes to the Ren Faire. Most people want a sidewalk view, be near a store. But she wants a fairy garden. I suppose we all have different needs. However, this is a need that is indeed, well, different. Still, we all have needs, and a fairy garden is an important one for her happiness.

Of course I was receiving this update while stoned on painkillers from my dental adventures. While it is partially astounding, it also sounded amazing. Actually, damnit, I wanted a fairy garden too. Of course, on occasion, because my aunt is 50 going to 18, she won’t answer her phone when my mom calls. It drives my mother crazy. I want to encourage my Aunt to say, “You aren’t the boss of me!” Now that would be amazing.

As the craptacular ideas spun in my head, I felt as if I could fly I was so loopy. Suddenly, I wanted to be a fairy in my aunt’s garden. Fuck New York. Fuck Ambition. Fuck the house and the man. If I was going to do this Never Never Land thing I was going to commit with ever fiber in my being.

Then the painkillers wore off.

In between those adventures I was in the pool with my parents, getting sun on my breakout skin. I felt like a teenager again. Of course, I am Skipper’s maid of honor, so dips in the pool were spent planning the wedding. I told my mother, as my casting director hat came on, that we needed to work with the talent that we had. We have a cousin who will be three when wedding time comes. My mother and I debated if she could be flower girl. Going back and fourth, we wondered if she would still be too young. Then I suggested the Craigslist Flower Girl. Yes, go on craglist, rent a flower girl, and pay her fifty dollars. Granted, it would probably be one of Aunt Amelia’s Ren Faire friends but still. Oh the shittily brilliant ideas painkillers give a lady.

In between all of this, my dad asked me when I was getting married. In between my break neck work schedule and my apartment that is an occupational hazard, I never thought much about it. He gave me some speech about getting older and wanting his daughter to be taken care of. About settling down with a decent man. Meanwhile, I had been shitting myself silly the week earlier because I had run my body down so massively. And now I was drooling because I couldn’t feel either side of my mouth. A decent guy would throw me change and this point, and that would be it. And then I thought of Greg and Denise. I was not ready to go to dinner parties with significant others just yet. And then a sliver of drool came down my mouth. Oh yeah….

Sunday there was a mixup into who was supposed to stay with my Mema Ralph, my dad’s mom and my last remaining grandparent. My dad and his remaining siblings take shifts. Somehow there was a mixup because another aunt of mine went on vacation or something. Either way, we rushed over Sunday to take care of her.

Mema Ralph, who is going to be 90 this year, was working on a puzzle. Yes, she works on puzzles. Despite touches of dementia, she is still pretty much with it. She has arthritis in various parts of her body, so she was using a spaghetti stirrer to help her reach the puzzle pieces. On the television was Murder She Wrote. Yes, it’s an old people show. However, it’s based off of Agatha Christie.

As a family, we all got sucked in. It was as if time had stopped, and I was 10 again. We were at Mema’s, and this was her favorite show. And there I was, misfit and wannabe writer as well as avid Ms. Marple fan. As a family, we all would guess the killer. My dad and I usually were able to crack the case. It was a time machine back to when times were simpler. When if I had a cavity, it was still a baby tooth so they would let it fall out. My big worry was the drama at Andrew Jackson Elementary School, but my big triumph would be winning the Biggest Reader Award.

Now my worries were would I book that job? Would I get turned down because the producer of the event doesn’t like ventriloquism? Would my article/screenplay get accepted by whoever? Would I get to do what I wanted, or fade quickly into obscurity, not earning a place in history? Would I be damned to worry about money forever, and if my health insurance, or lackthereof, would cover whatever was wrong with me? Suddenly, moving into the fairy garden seemed like a great idea.

On the other hand, change is the only constant in one’s life. As I grow up, I know now to take dental care seriously, because it sucks to have that many cavities. I will know to take better care of my body, because it sucks to be so tired it breaks down. Additionally, I will have a new brother in law, Boomer, soon. Greg and Denise probably just took the plunge but are just like me, holding on to the bumper wondering how the fuck to do this whole adult thing without killing themselves or someone else.

Throughout life, you need to have a sense of humor and past time. For my Mema Ralph it is her puzzles and dominos. She weathered the storm of raising 7 kids and losing a husband to a heart attack while she still had little ones at home. Not to mention she buried my Aunt Margaret, her oldest, ten years ago after losing a battle to cancer.

Or you could laugh, like the O’Flannery’s. While the death of Martin wasn’t easy, they keep his memory alive by being grateful. Not to mention they tell awesome stories too, knowing that unfortunately life comes with good and bad. Same with my parents. My mom laughs about my Aunt Amelia’s antics, because what else can you do. And my dad laughs about my Mema Ralph’s outbursts. Life is too short. Nothing is that serious.

Life is a sailboat ride. Sometimes you will get calm waters, sometimes it will be choppy, sometimes it will be a water fall. That is as deep as we are getting here, kids. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Dance to the Music (Sly and the Family Stone)

Once when we were kids, we were driving back from a Pirates game downtown. That was the 90s and the team was decent. The song “Dance To The Music” came on the radio. My dad told us he saw Sly and The Family Stone live as they were getting to be big. He was about six feet away from them and Sly was coked out as shit. Yeah, coked out. Then again, that whole generation of musician did drugs, right? My dad mentioned Sly was just dancing and the whole place was on fire. I believe the whole band was actually related.

It was the late 60s, early 70s. Aside from the Family Stone there was The Manson Family. Yes, I am talking Sharon Tate. That whole horror movie. Every member of that family has tried to get paroled but none have succeeded. But it was a weird time, a time of change. It was Civil Rights, and there were people who opposed them. Now there are people who oppose Gay Rights. It was Vietnam. My parents both knew people who were killed. Now we have the whole debacle in The Middle East. I have a high school classmate who drove his jeep over a landmine and was mortally wounded. People opposed both wars, and the only thing that was different was there was no draft in my generation. Otherwise people would be helluva pissed.

So some things change, some things stay the same.

Over the past year there has been a lot of change in my family. Not all of it has been for the better. Both my Nunni and Pop Pop, my mom’s parents, passed away. Nunni was a trendsetter and feminist before the word even became coined. She worked as a nurse during the war, went back to school in her 60s, and traveled the world after raising six kids. My mom then discovered words on scraps of paper, and Nunni confessed she had been writing poetry. So my mother implored her to publish. Nunni did, and akin to Grandma Moses began a writing career that spanned from her 70s to her 80s. Also, she acted as the grandmother in the local Nutcracker until her last year on the planet. Age wasn’t a number.

Pop Pop was also pretty progressive before the word became colloquial. He served in the Navy during World War II, and I believe even achieved the rank of First Lieutenant. In college, he had also majored in engineering and had boxed. When my mom was a kid, he installed a chin up bar and made his kids do chin up when they entered and exited a room. This was before people knew anything about fitness and the importance it played in their children’s lives. Pop Pop also supported Civil Rights. His belief was blacks should have the same rights as whites, and someone of a different color was welcome to be his neighbor as long as they caused no trouble. Pop Pop also supported gay rights too. His belief was they were people, and if they chose to live peacefully he had no issue with what they did behind closed doors.

Both were funny, both loved to tell a good joke. Both died within months of each other after being married sixty something odd years.

There have also been some changes for the better. This past week I was away with my family at the beach. My sister Skipper brought her beau Boomer. The two met when Skipper was completing medical school, and Boomer was the brother of one of her friends. Lately things have been heating up with this relationship. When Skipper got a job in Nashville, Boomer interviewed and once he was hired moved down to be with her. I saw them together and they were attached at the hip. Like the characters in Commedia Del Arte and the Tarot archetype, their love is pure and without the wear and tear of baggage. Thus I have nicknamed them The Lovers.

The Lovers proved to be ready and able vacation companions. I have to say although I don’t always agree with his Ron Paul friendly anti-government political leanings, I do like Boomer. He was telling me he met my sister and she kept blowing him off. Boomer’s sister Lena had organized these dinner parties in order to get Skipper to come and socialize with him. Out of the three, Skipper showed up once. Boomer was discouraged until his mother told him she and his dad had been engaged twice, and his dad didn’t give up. Well neither did Boomer. Eventually Skipper gave in.

Well the plot thickens. Boomer had hinted that he wanted to propose to Skipper, and they had been looking at rings. Skipper had received a bridal magazine in the Easter Basket my mother sent her. Boomer mentioned he was going to ask my dad for my sister’s hand in marriage. I told him I didn’t know people did that. He mentioned his brother in law Jimmy had spoken to his father. Needless to say, when it was Boomer and my dad by the pool, they had the talk. Boomer went for it. He told my dad things had been getting kind of serious. And then he asked my dad for my sister’s hand in marriage.

Well my dad’s best friends The Reveres came to vacay with us. Dr. Revere is an academic, and his wife Martha is pretty neat. Both met on Match.com. Anyway, while we were taking a pic on the beach my dad announced Boomer had asked him for Skipper’s hand in marriage. It was fun, it was joyous, it was a change for the better.

 Mother’s Day occurred during that trip and my mom, who took the passing of my grandparents quite hard, said that now there was no one to call when good news happened for any of us. I told her this simply wasn’t true. Our family structure was not diminishing but rather changing. Now when Skipper was called to get familial news, good or bad, Boomer would be attached to that announcement. There would still be people to get the good news, it is just that those people had changed. The network was evolving, not disappearing. Boomer would be a good brother-in-law and son-in-law. He understands family, and would have an idea on how to play his role. It wasn’t a bad thing. It was a good thing. It’s just that it was different.

There has been some change in my work life as well. I got passed over for a huge opportunity this winter, and was rejected completely for a job involving my writing. Both killed my self-worth. Additionally, I am still waiting to hear on another thing and Lord only knows what is going on there. The winter involved a lot of darkness. The things that were going on were very bad on one end, and very good on another. There was a lot of uncertainty. Uncertainty is worse than death in some ways. With death you know what happens, uncertainty, not so much. The killer was, I came close to both. When I say close, I was touching the top of the mountain and fell.

However, there have also been some opportunities revealing themselves that have been beyond words. I have started a new job for Ranter, a phone app where I work as a talking head. It is for sports nuts and sports fans everywhere. I don’t know what will happen or where that door will lead, but I have wanted to do something with sports broadcasting forever. This is a door I have wanted since I was a teenager, and now it has appeared. Also, I am doing a theatre show at Soluna Theatre May 30-31. I have wanted to do theatres forever too. Now it is happening. Additionally, I am also taking a graduate level class with a former editor of a big publishing house in regards to my writing. And a few weeks ago, I taped a DVD, a dream I have had for years. So some of the change is good.

On the other hand, the change is scary. As a woman working in sports broadcasting, I am well aware of the sexism I will face from my male counterparts. While that word is getting better, it still has a long way to go. The theatre show is a go, but anything could happen and I am well aware. Also, there is the fear that now that I am a headliner, will I be able to cut the mustard? And I know I can write but I have never been a Grammar Nazi or school person, will I be able to hack it? As for my DVD, how to get it sold and how to market? Also, will I be able to watch myself, since I do talk like a red neck chipmunk on crystal meth. I love my puppet children but damn, they creep me out too.

Then I remember another archetype in Tarot, and that is the Moon. The night Boomer asked for Skipper’s hand in marriage there was a big, brilliant full moon. We had gotten back from dinner, and we were on the patio. Boomer mentioned walking to the water, and Skipper mentioned she feared snakes. After some chiding, Boomer got her to go. The three of us journeyed to the beach. The bright lines from the moon illuminated as we stood at the ocean’s edge, the cool water kissing our feet.

At that moment, it occurred to me that the future was not just unknown to me, but to everyone. Yes, my path currently is single career woman who eats, sleeps, and drinks her work. I don’t know what is next, but the only thing I can do is trust that I am doing what I have been called to do, and to know I have not been taken this far in order to be dropped. Additionally, Skipper and Boomer don’t know their future. Yes, the Lovers are young and optimistic, but their journey will have bumpy roads. No one’s path is smooth all the time. However, they trust that they have been brought together, and are walking into the future as a unit. So yes, in Tarot The Moon is the card of uncertainty, but however, it is also the card of faith and knowing the choice is right.

Today was street fair day and I heard the song “Dance to the Music.” I ended up dancing with a woman missing some teeth in the front. But as we danced, it occurred to me that while change could be scary, life wasn’t that serious. Jobs come and go. Careers ebb and flow. Lovers disappoint, disappear, and are replaced with better lovers if the one you have doesn’t work out. The only thing you can do is have gratitude for what is good because that too shall pass, and know that anything that is bad shall pass as well. In the end you only have yourself, and you have to be able to handle a curve ball or home run and anything in between.

“I Say ‘Ride Sally, Ride.”

Love 

April

www.aprilbrucker.com

Come see me at the Soluna Theatre, May 30-31 Happague, Long Island

Buy my book I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Check out my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous coming soon

All Apologies (Nirvana)

A few days ago I wrote a blog post about how I not only had been in an abusive relationship, but also survived and turned my life around. I didn’t do this to speak the victimese many writers and women’s activists do, but rather to make myself visible to a young woman, any young woman, who needed to hear that it was possible to have a life after dating violence. That they didn’t deserve to be belittled by anyone, man or woman (domestic violence happens in lesbian relationships as well). My reason for telling my story was to let people know that they were responsible for how they let others treat them. That also, we pick our partners, etc.

In my journey as an activist, I have gotten lots of responses in my sharing about my past as a dating violence survivor. The comedy has gotten laughs, which is the goal. But also, it has made me visible. It has gotten other young women to speak to me about their experiences. Of course there have been the gamut of male bookers who have accused me of being bitter. I laugh and give a shout out to the good dudes. How does that make me bitter? Of course there are those insistent that because I speak out on behalf of women I am either a man hater or a lesbian, or a lesbian man hater. Contrary to what those Neanderthals believe, most lesbians don’t hate men. It’s those of us forced to date them that despise them most. Finally there are those dudes who say, “Get over it.” Translated, I struck a nerve. Believe it or not that is the goal of every activist. So when I hear, “Get over it,” I know someone was made to look at his own behavior and didn’t like it. Note, never in any of my exchanges do I say I hate men. This is just a classic example of uninformed idiots putting words in the mouth of a woman with opinions.

The disturbing response I got this week was from some rando who felt the need to hijack my fan page. He told me I made some “accusations” against my ex, and technically if I could not back this up he could sue me for libel. And that I better play it safe and take the blog down and never again blog about my experience. Wait a minute…Why do I have to stand accused? Why do I have to prove my ex did these terrible things to me? Why are they even being called accusations? Oh and here is the best part, I didn’t use his name. So there is no law suit. I am a lawyer’s kid, I know about the law. This moron, on the other hand, was just a man who wanted to hear himself talk.

This feedback in particular upset me because I have no reason to lie about surviving dating violence. I have no pathological reason to make up a story about being stalked unless I am just that desperate to get back at him which I am not. I am also not that desperate for attention. A stalker is not a fiend of convience let me tell you. If anything, they threaten your safety to the point you have to change your routine. An abusive ex is not something you make up either. Instead, when you are with them you make up excuses about why you continue to stay and feed into the codependent cycle you have created together. Yes, a shit relationship is not an I project but a we project.

 That is not what made me most pissed. What a comment like this does as it not just puts me in a place that I have to be an apologist but it does this to all victims. It puts us in a place where we are standing with our backs against the wall and the proverbial gun to our heads. It puts us in a place of blame. Then when we dare speak out it makes us as if we are the architects of our misery. Of course it is basically telling us that we are bitter. Bitter is the wrong word. We are honest. It tells us we are at fault. Yes, we picked our partners. Yes, we chose to stay whether it was eight months or eight years. But eventually we chose to leave.

What was most outrageous, aside from the fact this obvious chauvinist put me in a place where I had to defend myself, was he suggested I take the blog down as not to cause anymore trouble. I endured a year of hell and two more years of a stalker who terrorized me, stalked me by-proxy, and harassed the men I dated. I invested in a separate mailing address just to keep myself safe. My mother had his name on the refrigerator in case I disappeared. Even during the stalking I was nothing but a lady. I didn’t respond to the behavior. While I didn’t feed into him, it killed me inside. Despite the fact he was a master manipulator, I did love the man at one point. So yes I have been to hell thank you very much!

I thought about ripping into that moron for his feedback about my “accusations,” as if I were making them up. For putting me on trial, as if I would be breaking my ass doing all the activism I do because apparently I just have mental problems, the ability to lie, and too much time on my hands. Of course then there is my activism, I only do that because I have nothing else to do as well and just want something to whine about. So I guess what I have really wasted page space saying was, “Go to hell, asshole.”

I thought about how to rip up this idiot with nothing to say. But instead I blocked him. So I will say this. I will speak out when it comes to violence against women. On the matter of dating violence, I will continue to tell people about the psychological and physical dangers. In addition, I will also continue to speak out on behalf of stalking victims and the enforcement of stalking laws. As well, I will continue to champion victim’s rights because they have none. I will also continue to be open, honest, and willing to be visible.  Yes, if you haven’t figured it out I will continue….

I am sorry if my identity causes some people discomfort. I am sorry if some men don’t like the fact I came through hell at the hands of one of their own and am doing amazingly well as a feminist and independent woman. I am sorry if some women who have been married to the only man I ever dated forever think I just need to lighten up. I am sorry my presence is such an abhoration to some people. I am sorry that I have been successful despite the fact so many people wrote me off because some guy was busy beating my head in. I am sorry….

But on that note if this is the way you feel please do not watch me on TV, I am afraid I will turn to stone. Please don’t buy my books, I don’t need your money laced with prejudice and sexism. While you are at it, please don’t support me in any way. Really, many more who want to support me will. Many more who need to see me and hear me will. I don’t need you, so please don’t….

I said my peace. Some will agree. Some will disagree. At the end of the day not much has changed since Amelia Earhardt. How incredibly sad….

 

xoxoxo
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook, also through Brown and NYU Books
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Summer
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Ali Fornay Center