Hello again.  It’s been a while.  I use Word Press so I can clearly see this is my first post in two months.   I tried posting this in December, but kept losing internet connection at the bar I was writing at.  Then I’d lose all my work, then I’d order another beer and say “Fuck it.”   I’m in a coffee shop now- how very “January” of me.  And I know you think my New Year’s Resolution is to blog more, but it’s not.  My resolution this year is to find out how often girls wash their bras, add two weeks, then do that.  I’m making 2011 slightly less unhygenic than past years (I said “slightly.”)

Now back to the discovery of today’s blog.  I’ve always been a little superstituous when it comes to comedy and my appearance.  I feel like the worse I look on stage, the better I do.  I usually wear plaid shirts, sport a ponytail, and covet my feet with Uggs.  A big part of my act is about how women don’t have to do extra work to themselves to get a man- you can skip a shower, let a burp go, and be a little fuzzy in certain areas of your body and still pick up.  My clothes usually match that theory.  In fact, when I shot my Comedy Now special, I was very close to wearing my Uggs on national TV.  I’m pretty sure my cute, gay wardrobe guy would NEVER have let that happen, though.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

So when a show is intertwined in the same evening as my own birthday party, I’m stumped.  I would like to dress like a skid for the first portion of the evening, but afterwards, I would like to look(and smell for that matter) a little more deluxe.  But what do I do?  Do I wear my standard Stand Up uniform, and just bring an entire other outfit that I would have to change into during Peter Anthony’s set?  Do I use the Wendal Clarke’s bathroom as my own personal dressing room?  Or, do I just get it together, and fucking wear a dress on stage?  Peter’s set would be a shame to miss…

So I do it.  I put on a dress.  Pantyhose(obvi-I think we all know how often I shave my legs.)  High heeled boots.  Make- up.  I even wear my hair down, though if you look closely at my wrist, you can spot a tiny elastic that I could use for a last minute ponytail if I change my mind.

As I ride the street car down to Peter’s place, I convince myself I’m going to bomb.  So what?  It’s just one set.  At least it’s my birthday, so I’ll be having tons of drinks later to ease the pain.  When I get to Peter’s, he offers me a glass of wine.  Hell ya.  I need it.   I express my nerves.

“I always dress up on Saturday nights.  We’re performers.  We should always look just a little nicer than our audience,” he points out.  (I never mention peoples names in this blog, cuz I’m scared I’m going to misquote them.  Hopefully I didn’t screw this up.)  He has a point.  I breathe, agree, and feel a little less self conscious about showing a little leg on stage.

Frosty picks us up in his mini-van.  We get to Oakville much faster than usual, as it’s Saturday and there’s less traffic.  We walk in in the club.  The club manager barely recognizes me, as I look night and day different from my last show here.  I should probably eat something, but I hate eating before a set.  Though showing up for your own birthday party on an empty stomach is probably a bad idea too.  Maybe somebody will order something that comes with fries, so I can steal one(I am a chronic French Fry thief.  I may as well come clean about that.)

“Let the Good Times Roll” starts to play in the club.  That’s my system’s cue to get butterflies.  Every Yuk Yuk’s across Canada plays this song right before they start the show.  I know I have about 15 minutes til my show of doom.  Then it’s time for Oakville to judge me. 

I hit the stage.  Joke #1… Joke #2… Joke #3… it’s all going normal.  In fact, it might be going better.  They like me.  And I’m in a fucking dress and heels.  I never thought I’d see the day.  I always thought if I dressed too nice, the women in the crowd wouldn’t like me.  They’d get catty and instantly hate me.  As a comic, I want to be heard, not seen.  So I keep my look rather boring.  But here I am, challenging my own theory, and discover that maybe listening to a pretty girl confess that not everything’s pretty underneath, is more disarming than simply dressing like ass. 

So from now on, I’m not gonna dress down on stage.  I’m going to make an attempt to , at the very least, look “Rosedale friendly.”  I mean, I’m not going to walk into the Central on a Tuesday night in prom gear or anything, I’m just not going to purposely hide any form of cuteness I may possess.   After making this discovery, I mentioned it to another comic who brought up the fact he was very surprised I didn’t try to look nice at my last showcase.  Showcases are important sets where we should bring it, cuz industry people are sitting in the back of the room, trying to decide what to do with you- if anything.  It’s true.  I may have missed out on some opportunities by being scared to dress nice on stage.  But I can’t worry about the past.  I can only try for the future.

The good news for you?  Looks like I’m gonna be showering more.  Or I’ll just look like I showered.  I’ve got moves.


comedian girl.

P.S.  Seriously?  How often are you supposed to wash your bras?

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