I was the class clown. Unusual for a girl, as that distinction usually goes to boys. I remember it started in the 9th grade, when I was 30, but it might have begun earlier and I just don’t remember. I had a shrink once who asked me when my earliest memory was and I said five? Seventeen? As she scribbled furiously on her pad of paper, I asked if that was bad. She rolled her eyes, the psychological equivalent of the OJ jury listening to the prosecutor describe DNA.

I’ve been that clown my entire life. It has not endeared me to a lot of people. At my Dad’s funeral at Arlington Cemetery, I made a crack about porn to the pastor presiding over the ceremony. As the people in my group inhaled sharply and took one step back in unison, the pastor laughed. I did the same thing at a bat mitzvah only the rabbi did not laugh until the father of the child ‘explained’ me to him. I have no boundaries when it comes to joking around. I have Comedy Tourette’s. Not bragging, just saying.

Only once did it pan out in my favor. I was living in New York and dating a man I had been seeing for three years. We had our ups and downs and the latest down involved me catching him lying about where exactly he was in Los Angeles, where he was filming a documentary on Milton Berle, who was one of his distant cousins. He said he was staying at his aunt and uncle’s but when I called them they had no idea he was even in California. Great.

I eventually tracked him down at the Friar’s Club where he refused to talk to me for longer than three minutes and instead kept repeating he’d talk to me when he got home. WOMEN HATE THAT GUYS, JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING.

Back in New York I came down with a massive cold/flu/bubonic plague. So sick that I was in bed. Dying and dictating my will. While I was recuperating, the boyfriend came home and proceeded to tell me that he was leaving me for another woman. A married woman. I got out of bed and wobbled to the kitchen, where I had a bottle of Brandy that I never drank because I hated Brandy. As I proceeded to scream at him and tell him to getthefuckoutNOW, he followed me from room to room as I slugged liberally from the bottle and made faces even a mother couldn’t love.

And all I could think about was that night I had a show in Long Island. And I needed the money and couldn’t cancel.

…to be continued so CYA this Friday for what happened at that show.

Share/Save/Bookmark