"...KilBaby may be up for adoption..."
Make Me An Offer, July 18, 2006
I couldn't say anything until today, but I'm doing the
Masters shows at Montreal this weekend. Masters, along with New Faces, is the show that industry attends. It's a big deal. Most Masters sets are a cumulation of everything you've written or done or become since you were showcased on Montreal's New Faces, which in my case was
nine years ago.
Eighty percent of
my set is less than four months old and I've been tweaking, bombing and killing like an open miker since I heard the good news ten days ago. It's stressful and not fun, and my only relief will come at Montreal, when I've done everything in my power to make each joke work and there's nothing more I can do. Then I just walk out when they announce my name and find the crowd.
Of course, all this worry could be for nothing if the government doesn't return my passport in the next three days. No pressure!
As much as I was able to pretend I wasn't pregnant for the first five months, now I can't forget. Kilbaby is moving constantly, and it's creepy- an endless wiggle inside my stomach. Mother is tired. If this 24/7 activity is a taste of what's to come, KilBaby may be up for adoption. Half Irish, half Mexican means he will look Italian. Or Jewish. Promise not to put him on Ritalin and make me an offer.
All proceeds go to pay for maternity clothes.
I bought eight tops at Destination Motherhood, here on Madison Avenue in liberal New York City. Total cost? Four hundred dollars. The extra material that stretches to cover the final two months of your belly quintuples the cost of a shirt. It's a scam, they have you trapped. You're too tired to comparision shop, you're sick of wearing your boyfriend's t-shirts and after trying on thirty cheap but ugly shirts, you'll pay any amount for one that's half-pretty.
Destination Debt.
Buy my baby.*
* No public schools, no home schools and no Christian academies.
**Must learn chess, a second language and how to swim.
