"...Right around Canada, I couldn't feel my feet..."
Thanks Heaps, May 2 2006
Please do see
United 93.
Please don't see
United 93 hours before you take a red eye from Anchorage to New York, on United 400. I was ready to take down any male with brown eyes and brown hair and that included El Babydaddy.
It turns out that my vanity terrorized me more than Al Queda.
You see, to prove that this damn pregnancy won't change my life one bit, I saved my tight jeans for the trip home. That evening, I'd laid down on the hotel bed, shoved the baby into my spine and closed the zipper.
The longer I sit in them, I told myself,
the looser they will get. I estimated I would be comfortable somewhere over Utah.
I was wrong. Right around Canada, I couldn't feel my feet.
In the tiny economy class bathroom, I took off my jeans, underpants, socks and shoes. I double-checked the lock, sat on the toilet and stuck my feet straight in the air. I could hear conversations outside the door. Entire rows were waiting to piss and masturbate, but I stayed in a flayed missionary position until I could point my toes. At least ten minutes.
We had a short layover in Denver.
"I gotta buy sweatpants, I'm dying." I told El B.
He grumbled about money and rushing around at that hour (6:30 AM), but who's carrying whose baby, mutherfucker? Exactly. And I'm tired of hearing of how many diapers I could buy with whatever money I'm "wasting" on a latte or magazines or eyeshadow.
El Buzzkill!
Most places weren't open for 30 minutes, but the manager of a sports store saw us staring at her from behind security bars, and she graciously opened early. Several mannequins in the window wore sweatpants. I pointed.
"I need those."
"Oh, we don't sell those anymore."
"NO!"
"Just shorts," she said.
"Can I buy the pants off a mannequin?"
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Please! I'll give you a hundred dollars for a mannequin's pants!!" I pulled out my wallet.
"No, she won't," said El B, grabbing my wallet.
I spent 17.95 on a pair of Denver Nuggets boxers and 4.95 on a razor and shaving cream. I gave my legs a quick buzz as a courtesy to my fellow passengers and flew from Denver to La Guardia in boxers, tapping my toes the whole way.
I"m probably not going to get Montreal when I showcase for them on Saturday night. My ten minute set, unlike my jeans, is not tight. In the middle is baby material and it's all new and it keeps changing the longer I'm pregnant. The set is loose in the middle and while spontenaity makes for the best live comedy, the festival and industry types like an air-tight, bullet proof set that has worked a hundred times before and will work a hundred times again, especially at their festival.
Every set, I play with exactly how negative I can be towards my baby while it's still in utero. As I'm not showing yet, it takes about three jokes for people to believe that I'm pregnant. That's a long time for a ten minute set. When the pregnancy becomes apparent in a month or so, I can get to the meaty jokes immediately. But now I have to meander towards them, and there's no room for meandering in a showcase set.
Thanks heaps, you little shit.
