Girl Walks Into a Bar
Read Girl Walks Into a Bar Online
Authors: Rachel Dratch
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Topic, #Relationships, #Humor, #Entertainment & Performing Arts
Girl Walks
into a
Bar…
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, May 2012
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Copyright © 2012 by Mousepaw Enterprises, Inc.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Dratch, Rachel.
Girl walks into a bar—: comedy calamities, dating disasters, and a midlife miracle / Rachel Dratch.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-57990-9
1. Dratch, Rachel. 2. Women comedians—United States—Biography. I. Title.
PN2287.D5495A3 2012
792.702′8092—dc23
[B]
2011047377
Printed in the United States of America
SET IN NEW CLEAR ERA
DESIGNED BY JUDITH STAGNITTO ABBATE/ABBATE DESIGN
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For Eli,
Beyond my imagination
This book
starts off by talking about Showbiz for a while, but I assure you, it is actually not about Showbiz. It’s about Not Showbiz, and what happened to my life when Not Showbiz became my un-chosen profession….
Table of Contents
We’re Going in a Different Direction
What to Expect When You’re Not Expecting
We Are Thrilled to Announce the Birth of … Hercules!?
How to Care for Your F’in’ Baby
A Letter from the Prophet Doug
With All Due Respect to Edgar Allan Poe
The Day I Became a “Baby Person”
“Do-It-Yourself Infant Care”or, If You Live Outside Manhattan, “Infant Care”
First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage, Then Comes the Baby in the Baby Carriage
The Natalie Merchant Converse Axiom of Child Care
Prologue
“Hey, I know you!”
said the stranger.
I was on Third Ave in New York, emerging from the Starbucks.
“Hi,” I said.
The stranger turned to his friend and nudged him. “You know who that is?
SNL!
SNL
, man!”
The friend gave a vague, fake nod of recognition. The stranger tried to convince his friend to be more excited.
“She’s
funny
!” He turned back to me. “What’s your name again?”
“Rachel.”
“Yeahhhh! Rachel! Man!
SNL!
SNL!
”
The friend looked down the street, wanting to move on.
“Awwww! I miss seeing you on TV! I never see you in movies or anything anymore!” said the stranger.
“Yeah, well …”
“What happened to you?!”
How to answer
this question: What happened to me? Where have I been since you last saw me on TV?
I
know where I’ve been. My friends know where I’ve been. They see me all the time. But, to the comedy-viewing public—
Where have I been?
Sometimes people think I’m still working, because they see me on reruns of
Saturday Night Live
or
King of Queens
. People think if they see you on reruns, that means you’re working. No. You are sitting in your apartment watching Judge Mathis. That’s what you are doing.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a vibrant part of the showbiz community. My agent still calls with offers for work. It goes like this:
RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG!
“Yay!” I think to myself. “It’s my agent!”
“Hi, Rachel. Is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all!” I hit TiVo to pause Judge Mathis. He is about to deliver a verdict to the girl being sued by her mother for wrecking her car.
“We’ve got an offer for you.”
“An offer. Great!” An offer means you don’t have to go in and audition—the part is yours if you want it. It’s my lucky day.
“It’s to play the part of Cammy.”
“That sounds awesome!”
“It shoots in November for two days.”
“Great!”
“Cammy is the lesbian friend of the two leads.”
“OK!”
“Now, in the script it says she’s three hundred pounds, but just ignore that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You have three lines.”
“Hmm. Um. Can I think about it?”
“Sure. Give it some thought. I’ll circle back.”
“OK. Bye.”
An hour goes by. I finish up my courtroom duties for the moment and move on to my other career: amateur psychologist with Dr. Phil. I kind of detest him, but I get a secret thrill at how pompous he is. I also love how his wife, Robin, sits in the audience smiling every episode and that’s her job. Right now, he’s speaking to a mom who is addicted to Oxycontin.
“Now, I’m not gonna tell you that what you’re doing is even a little bit OK? ’Cause it’s not?”
RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG!
No way. It’s my agent again!
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rachel. I got another part here.”
“Yeah?”
“They want you to come in and read for the part of Ginge.”
“OK. That sounds funny;
now
we’re getting somewhere.”
“So don’t get put off by the character description. Keep an open mind.”
“Hit me.”
“Ginge is the chief of police.”
“OK!”
“It says in the script she’s a fifty-five-year-old bull dyke. Obese. But they want you to put your spin on it.”
“Okaaay. Wow. Fifty-five years old … and obese?”
“Well, they say that, but they don’t really know what they’re looking for.”
“You know I’m trying to get away from these kinds of parts, right?”
“Think on it. You might want to just go in and read for it. I’ll send you the sides.”
“OK. Bye.”
Wow. Well. I … do … not know about this. I return to the television. After Dr. Phil, I may as well head back to the courtroom for Judge Judy. I think of my college classmates from Dartmouth who are performing neurosurgery at this moment, or being senators (Kirsten Gillibrand [D] NY). Coming up on Judge Judy: “‘YOU’RE A MORON, SIR!’ ‘Listen, she told me I could keep her dog.’ ‘I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT! I’M SMARTER THAN YOU, SIR! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ ‘Um…’ ‘UM IS NOT AN ANSWER!’”
RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG!
What the huh? It’s my agent again.
“Rachel, I have another part for you.”
“Three parts in one day? This is unheard of. It almost seems like it’s being used as a comedic device.”
“Character is named LaLa.”
“OK.”
“Now, don’t pay attention to what it says in the script. It’s a great part and the movie’s gonna be huge. Paul Rudd is the lead. You just have one scene, but it’s a killer.”
“OK.”
“LaLa is a mousy secretary.”
“OK. That’s my specialty. What’s the scene?”
“LaLa walks into the room. She’s sixty years old. She is the ugliest woman in the world.”
“Sorry, wait, I thought you just said she’s the ugliest woman in the world.”
“Well, that’s what it says in the script, but you know, they just write that…”
“Oh, man.”
“… and in the movie there’s a contest to see how much money each man would pay to not have sex with LaLa. But that doesn’t mean they think that about
you
. They want
your
spin on it. It’s one day. Pays scale. You have to fly yourself to LA.”
“Um, let me call you back.”
These are pretty much
the only parts I’m offered since I’ve been off
SNL
. Lesbians. Secretaries. Sometimes secretaries who are lesbians. Usually much older than I am in real life. Usually about 100–200 pounds more than I am in real life.
I am offered solely the parts that I like to refer to as The Unfuckables.